The Princess and the Dragon
by Cerebella Kennor
Summary: Dragons do not lightly suffer company in their hoards, unless that company intrigues them or bears some resemblance to treasure, and I somehow happened to manage both. OR: Smaug decides it would be amusing to confirm the old folktales of captured Princesses and Dragons. All princesses need saving, and it's no different for Carmen - even if she's not, in fact, a princess.
1. Smaug

**THIS IS BASED OFF THE BOOK, NOT THE MOVIES! **

**Also: OC!Alert. Possible Mary-Sue, though I attempted to make her flawed and have realistic thought processes. Who the fuck knows if I managed it?**

**Finally: My capitalization for words involving the species of Elf, Man, Dwarf, Dragon, Goblin, and Wolf, etc. alter continuously. Mostly I tried to use caps for the times I was speaking about the species and non-caps for when I was speaking of specific beings. **

* * *

**Part One: Smaug**

I suppose I should be grateful for being alive; if it hadn't been for my manner of arrival, there was no doubt in my mind that I would be dead: fried to a crisp and eaten – perhaps tortured a bit. Dragons do not lightly suffer company in their hoards, unless the company intrigues them or bears some resemblance to treasure, and I somehow happened to manage both.

I arrived in the Halls of Erebor, directly on top of a mound of treasure, in a shower of gold sparks.

There is no way for me to explain said arrival; it was mischance that brought me here, nothing more. No Wizard or Vala or Maia – not even Eru Ilúvatar Himself – summoned me forth. No, what called me here was an explosive reaction caused by the interaction between the residual magic left by the dragon's presence and an old gemstone carved by elven hands of the Age of the Two Trees (and howsuch a treasure got into Erebor, I would never know).

Suffice to say, the gem absorbed the magic secreted by the dragon until it could take no more; then it exploded, and the dammed flow of suppressed power was released. Rather than linger within this realm of Middle-earth, or perhaps because of the nature of the elven gem, the magic created a doorway and the flood was released in another world: my world.

The resulting earthquake had to be at least a seven on the Richter scale, tearing down many buildings and quite possibly the Golden Gate Bridge itself with its force, though I would never know if that were so. As it goes with doors sometimes, when the link between our realms closed, the suctioning managed to yank something back with it – me. And because of the amount of magic involved, because of the power that swirled about my body as I was driven through the momentary gap between our worlds (and quite possibly the fact that the gem had been wrought by elven hands and retained some elvish magic), I was forever changed. Into an elf, an immortal, was I transformed – and perhaps that affected Smaug's reaction to me as well.

* * *

As I said, I arrived in a shower of gold sparks, thrown down roughly onto a pile of gold and jewels. Bewildered and in pain, I laid there for a time trying to regain my bearings. I'd been walking by the seaside not a moment before, breathing in the fresh, salty air, and now I was landed on a mound of treasure in a place whose air was stifling and old.

"Who are you, Elf?"

A voice loud and deep rang, echoing in the large hall. I sucked in a sharp breath and rolled onto my back, inadvertently sliding slightly downward on the mound of gold and getting stabbed with coins and cups and gems. My eyes came upon the speaker, and at first I couldn't even scream.

There before me, in all his mighty glory, stood a dragon.

A _dragon_.

If it weren't for the wings, I might have just called him a dinosaur; but there _were_ wings, and, what's more, there was a trail of dark smoke spiralling out of his mouth. His scales were a deep red, the colour a mix of fire and blood, and his eyes were golden and his pupils slit.

"Well?" he prodded, peering closer.

I crawled backward up the slope, mouth moving open and closed in quick succession as I tried and failed to speak. Words evaded me, frightened and confused as I was, until eventually I spoke – though all that came out was a stuttered, "D-dragon!"

"Hmm," mused the dragon, "I always thought Elves were wittier than the other races. Perhaps I should just eat you."

"E-eat me!" I squeaked. "You can't eat me; I'm too young to die!"

The dragon laughed, a horrible rumbling deep within his chest, and more smoke poured out of his mouth. I coughed as it swirled in my face, lifting up my shirt to cover my mouth and nose until it floated away. "Several _millennia_ is too young for you Elves," he jested.

"I'm only twenty-two," I weakly informed him.

"Oh?" the dragon said, eyeing me. "You do not smell as though you are lying, and yet you must be."

"I'm not!" I cried, shaking and holding on tightly to the gold beneath my fingertips.

"That _is _odd. And how is it you travelled here? A pretty magic, I must say."

"I don't – I don't know!"

And that was when my hand touched it – or what little remained of it. My hand jerked away as a cry escaped me at the feel of the hot metal and melted gemstone. I gazed down in alarm and saw the remnants of a once-beautiful piece of jewellery, still slightly orange from the heat. Above me the dragon's head loomed closer as its keen eyes narrowed to look upon what had harmed me. "That is one of the many elven gems in my hoard," he commented. "How came it to be in such a condition? Did _you _ruin it?"

"I didn't!" I denied.

"Hmm," he hummed, and he was otherwise quiet while he pondered. At length he spoke again, this time laying his eyes on me: "You say you do not know how you travelled here; yet, here I espy an ancient relic of the Elder Days, destroyed beyond repair."

I crouched silently, staring up at the dragon as he stared down at me. His golden eyes were thoughtful and greedy as he took in my form. His gaze moved often from me to the ruined gem, and sometimes he would hum as though in consideration. "A treasure for a treasure," he decided at last. "I had not thought to take a maiden like in the stories of old, for princesses do not interest me except in eating; yet, I find your strange arrival and manner befitting. No other in Arda can lay claim on such a unique creature as you. You destroyed a piece of my hoard, and you shall pay for it with your life. You are fair enough to behold, and the lives of Elves are long. Yes, that will do. Smaug the Magnificent cannot be called unmerciful, for I shall let you live."

I stared at him in horror, and he returned it with avarice plain on his features. For a moment I wished he would just kill me and be done with it (death would surely be preferable to life with a dragon), but then I recalled that burning to death was one of the most painful ways to go, and I thought that maybe I could find some cliff to throw myself off of.

"Now, what is your name, Elf? What shall I call my new treasure?"

I didn't wish to answer, because myths and folklore said that names held power, but the dragon's voice was charming and it was very difficult to resist. "C-Carmen," I stammered. "My name is Carmen."

I managed to leave out the rest of it, my middle name and my surname – Maria Rossi. I could only hope that it would help me in some way, my not having given him my full name. I doubted it, though. This dragon had been able to drag my real name out of me without having it in the first place, so what difference could it make to withhold the other two?

"Carmen," the dragon enunciated. "It is an odd name, in a language unknown to me. What does it mean, and from what language does it come?"

"The – the translation is 'song', and it – it's Latin."

"And what is this Latin?" he wondered, seemingly delighted. "I have not heard of it."

"An ancient language from Italy," I managed to reply.

"Italy, you say? Is that from whence you came?"

"No, my great-grandparents emigrated from there to America, where I live."

"Where you lived," he corrected absently. "My, it seems you have come a long way indeed! Tell me: what is the name of your land – the entirety of it, not just one land mass?"

"Um...Earth," I answered slowly, the queerness of his question churning impossible thoughts, horrifying thoughts, in my head.

He nodded, stating, "It is as I thought, then."

I remained silent, not wanting to speak unless I had to. I wished he would move away; it was unsettling to have a _dragon _looming over me like that. He hadn't moved since he'd begun to look at the melted gemstone, keeping his head above me as he observed my expressions and movements.

"Will you not ask what I have concluded?" he cajoled.

"What have you concluded?" I echoed obediently, not wanting to be hurt.

He smiled, and rows of teeth sharp like swords gleamed in the dim light. He didn't reply for a little while, seemingly amused to keep me hanging and to watch me as I grew more impatient and full of dread. "This is Middle-earth," he finally told me. "Arda it was called by the Elves, though many Men and Dwarves have taken to using that name. Yes, you are far from your homeland indeed, and there will be no returning to it."

My eyes grew wide, to his delight, but luckily (for me) he did not know the direction of my thoughts – he did not know how my mind was spinning threads, connecting my situation and location to a boring book I'd read in high school: _The Hobbit_. He did not know that I now knew of his imminent (but _how _imminent?) demise – if he had, he surely would have connived and charmed or tortured the information out of me – but, as it were, I spoke not a word of my knowledge in the hope that it would still come to pass.

I just wish I knew how long it would take.

"Now Carmen, my treasure, tell me more of the place from whence you came," he bid.

And that was how I came to be held prisoner within the Lonely Mountain, treasure of the Dragon Dread Smaug, for one hundred years.

* * *

The first few days were the worst, for not only did I have to adjust to being an Elf – I blame the fact that I was in the presence of a dragon for my having not noticed his repeatedly calling me 'Elf' – but I also had to deal with the company and the lodgings and, worst of all, the _food_.

"I can't eat that," I whispered in disgust when the bleeding, severed leg of a deer was thrown before me.

Smaug glared down at me, bearing his teeth as he growled, "Is it not good enough, Princess? Does it not meet your standards?"

I gulped as black smoke wafted out from between his teeth and the back of his throat glowed red like embers. "It – it's raw," I choked. "It'll make me sick if I eat it."

Without warning, fire poured out of his mouth and charred the leg. I was forced to leap back, stumbling and cursing under my breath as my pants caught fire. I slapped the flames to smother them, cringing and crying out in pain as my skin was burned, and soon the flame went out. Tears dripped down my cheeks and off my chin while I stifled sobs, but Smaug looked on in cruel satisfaction as he announced, "There, it is cooked. It shall not make you sick now."

And he stood there watching with narrowed eyes until I crept closer to the blackened meat and began eating. He did not let up until I had swallowed twenty mouthfuls, and at that time he went away with a cheerful laugh. I covered my lips and told myself not to vomit, swallowing down the saliva that pooled in my mouth as my stomach prepared to heave. If I puked, I had a feeling that Smaug would be furious, so I forced my stomach to settle by taking deep breaths of stale air in through my nose.

* * *

My bed was a pile of gold, the mound directly next to the one Smaug was fondest of. It was severely uncomfortable to sleep in, with so many different shapes poking me everywhere, but after Smaug's reaction to my wanting cooked food I thought it best not to say anything. Sometimes he would snort in his sleep and fire would spew out of his nostrils and burn me; however, eventually I learned the best way to lie to avoid the flames.

Within the first couple of days, as I bore Smaug's wrath for needing water to drink and bathe in, and somewhere to urinate and defecate, my clothes were burnt to cinders and my body was riddled with scars. Elves might heal quickly, but it was impossible to heal when fire constantly assaulted me, and I was riddled with pain. When he was not hurting me or ignoring me, the dragon was demanding stories and songs and explanations of the things I'd come across in my home.

It was exhausting. I was too terrified to sleep properly, waking constantly and hoping beyond hope that I would blink and be back in San Francisco, and I was wary every time I spoke or moved, waiting for the next time Smaug would get angry with me.

The day my clothes fell off entirely, perhaps a week after my arrival, Smaug considered my naked form and then declared, "Your skin shines like silver in pale moonlight. Elves do not feel the cold, my treasure, thus you have no need for clothes - and you would find none in these halls, besides!"

And that was that.

It was humiliating to walk about without clothes, and the dragon laughed many times when he spotted my red face, yet after a few weeks it became tiresome to hold on to my modesty, and I stopped blushing and shielding my body at all hours of the day and night. On the positive side, Smaug was a dragon and therefore in no way interested in the anatomy of Elves outside of the aspects he found appealing in a purely aesthetical fashion. He just wasn't a sexual creature, and that was something I was glad of.

* * *

About two weeks after my clothes had been fully destroyed I worked up the courage (or the stupidity) to ask Smaug a question: "C-could I go outside?"

His large head snapped toward me and an ugly expression slid across his face. "You cannot escape," he snarled.

"I don't mean to," I quickly appeased, and it was done honestly.

I had learned the hard way that the dragon could sniff out lies, and the scars from that had yet to heal. I'd tried to tell him once that I was going to the bathroom when I'd meant to explore the dwarf caves in search of clothes, and he'd known immediately that I was deceiving him. His spiked tail had thrashed me on my thigh and he'd demanded to know the truth of the matter; his learning that I'd been trying to disobey him had caused me even more pain.

It was best to give the dragon whatever he wanted, for I had no hope of escape until Bilbo came – whenever that would be.

"Then why would you desire to go outside? Perhaps you are hoping someone might see you and make an attempt to rescue you, hmm?" he interrogated.

"I'm not!" I objected, and it was true (actually, it had not occurred to me that someone might see me, as no one came near the mountain so far as I could recall from my reading).

"None would succeed," he growled. "A dragon will not give up his hoard, and you belong to me."

"I just wanted to see the sky and breathe fresh air," I whispered, turning my head away so he could not see my tears.

"Perhaps I will let you," he considered.

I looked up, hope shining in my eyes.

"In fifty years or so," he added, and the gleam in his eye told me that he was aware of how much that pained me. It often pleased him to pain me so, just to see my eyes 'glitter with tears, like crystals'. "Yes," he decided, "I shall bring you out to breathe the cool air of the mountain in fifty years. And if you are good, I may take you out every year after that, Princess – but only if you are good."

"I will be," I swore.

And I was.

* * *

Though I was still terrified, somehow the fear turned into background noise as the years passed. I became accustomed to living in the Lonely Mountain with Smaug, and though I did not like it, I learned not to hate it. So long as I answered Smaug's questions, entertained him when he desired it, told the truth, and obeyed his every command, life was as painless as it could be in such circumstances. I was still sometimes burned by his flame, but the time between wounds grew longer and longer as I learned his moods. I knew when his anger would cause him to lash out at me, and when his annoyance could be soothed by some fanciful tale from my world. I learned when best to ask things, and how to butter him up with enough flattery to grant my requests.

That was how I got the privilege of cooking my own meat. I was telling Smaug about dinosaurs, and had just finished describing the Tyrannosaurus Rex to him when I blithely added, "I don't think any of them were as large and terrifying as you are."

"Really?" he wondered brightly.

"Really," I affirmed. "I've seen some of the fossils set up in a museum, and they were huge, but you're just as big – if not bigger – and none of the dinosaurs could breathe fire or had scales as tough as diamonds. I don't think they could talk, either. They weren't nearly as clever as you."

"You're flattering me, my treasure," he observed, though he was pleased nonetheless.

"I speak only the truth."

"Yes," he smiled, "and yet praise from you is as rare and as precious as red diamonds or black opals."

I wet my lips and took a breath before asking: "Master Smaug, could I cook my own meat? I might learn how to smoke it to preserve it longer – then you wouldn't have to leave the Mountain so often to fetch me food."

He nodded as I confirmed his suspicions, but he was still too pleased with being called fiercer than a dinosaur, beasts which I'd told him gave nightmares to children billions of years after their extinction. "You may," he allowed graciously.

Afterwards I learned, through trial and error, how to smoke meat – and how to cut and skin animals, as that was something Smaug had not let me do before, when he'd burn my portion to a cinder. My failures still wound up tasting better than blackened meat, though. I was so sick of my protein-only diet, but at least I finally managed to make the taste palatable. Even Smaug liked nipping a bit every now and again.

* * *

And so the years passed.

Sometimes time seemed to go on forever, and other times I lost track of it completely and only noted its passing by the growth of my hair, which Smaug preferred I kept down to my ankles (as he said it gleamed like smoky quartz, ever comparing me to the treasure found in his hoard). Sometimes I actually managed to feel something close to comfortable, usually when the dragon was out hunting or sleeping. I couldn't ever really feel comfortable when we spoke though, as I knew that one wrong word could set him off. Thus I always spoke my words with caution, considering my speech beforehand to ensure I got the reaction I desired.

Smaug spoke much and long about Arda, though his knowledge was biased and incomplete. I learned a lot about the lay of the land and, regrettably, which race tasted better and which was funniest to watch flee and cower in fear (Dwarves were best for eating, but Mannish maidens were the most fun to watch suffer). But there was one thing I enjoyed hearing him speak about, and that was the many conversations he had had with the many different species.

He'd spoken to Elves and Dwarves and Men and Goblins – and even Wild Wolves and Trolls! I didn't much like the topics the latter three species chose, but the first three always spoke cleverly. The ones who lived long enough did, anyhow. You had to be witty to survive Smaug, especially if you couldn't catch his interest in another way (like by arriving in a shower of gold from an entirely different dimension after race-swapping).

Throughout the years he adorned me with jewellery, and once he even allowed me to choose something of my own after I'd greatly pleased him with a song. Not once did I stray near the Arkenstone, not even when he gave me the opportunity to take my pick. Instead I decided upon a beautiful but plain mithril circlet with a lone pinky-nail-sized red jewel on the brow. Smaug approved of my choice, commenting that it was only right for a Princess to wear a crown. My reasoning wasn't actually for any such purpose; no, I chose it because it allowed me to keep my hair out of my face without needing to tie it in knots or constantly brush it back. That and I already wore enough silver and gold and stones: I had necklaces and bracelets and anklets, chains that wrapped around my hips and clinked when I moved, and rings on my fingers and in my ears and a single stud in my nose.

At one point Smaug had me make a new piece for my nose, created from what was left of the mithril from the jewel that had brought me here. It was labour-intensive and painful, as I had to deal with being in close proximity to Smaug's fire in a forge while wielding a great hammer. It was the product of many weeks – many weeks which were passed in agony as the first results I achieved were nowhere near good enough for the dragon. Thankfully the stud wound up being good enough in the end, though that was after twenty-seven attempts. Smaug never asked me to alter any bit of his treasure again, and I was glad of it. Not that he would have let me touch anything _but _that broken piece, anyway.

* * *

Fifty years after my coming to Erebor, Smaug took me outside for the first time, like he promised. He brought me out to the closed gates and had me climb up a set of narrow stairs to stand on top while he looked on suspiciously.

It was almost too much for me.

The wind whipped my exceedingly long hair back and pricked at my face. My lungs breathed in deeply and the cool, clean, light air stung as it entered. It was night, but the pale half-moon seemed exceedingly bright after having dwelt beneath the mountain for half a century and I had to squint against it. Despite the slight pain in my retinas, it was a beautiful sight.

I could see a river flowing below, the cold and powerful current moving swiftly and sounding like music to my ears. There was grass in abundance, and trees in the distance. If I squinted, I could see them sway in the breeze. The sky, though. The sky took my breath away. It was blanketed with thousands – perhaps millions – of stars, all shining brightly and clearly in the cloudless night.

I hadn't seen the sky in fifty years.

It was so vast – endless, really – and it made me weep, for I felt peace for the first time in this strange place. It was as though the stars were singing sweetly to me, some soft lullaby I'd half-forgotten. They winked at me and sang, and the wind joined them in their comforting chant. "All will be well," they seemed to say. "You will be safe when Smaug is gone, and you will be free to run in open fields and dance beneath us."

"Come now," Smaug called, "if you weep at the sight, perhaps I should not bring you here next year."

"I weep because I am happy," I explained as I regretfully descended the stairs.

I took one last glace at the sky, and the stars seemed to whisper, "Be strong!" before I descended back into the heart of the Mountain.

* * *

After that it was both harder and easier to continue living in the Lonely Mountain. On the one hand, it was easy for me to count the passing years; on the other, I didn't know when Bilbo and the Company would come. I could be waiting another fifty years, or a century! But I had seen the sky at last, and breathed the free air. The sight and smell had evoked within me a flame brighter than Smaug's own dragon-fire. It was the taste of freedom and of hope – the hope for freedom at long last.

I didn't know how long it would take, but I would be free of Smaug one day; the dragon would be slain by Bard of Lake-town and I would walk out of this horrible, dark mountain and greet the sun and the moon. I would sleep beneath the stars and dance with the wind; I would sing to the moon and praise the sun, the sun which I had not seen for fifty years.

Smaug noticed the change in me immediately. "You are glowing, my treasure," he commented.

"I usually do," I responded in confusion.

"That is so," he agreed, "but I mean you have an air about you that speaks of happy thoughts."

"I saw the sky and the moon, and I felt fresh air on my face – none of which I have beheld for fifty years. It brought me great joy, Master Smaug," I confessed.

"You shall witness the night again in a year's time, if you do not misbehave," he reminded me.

"Thank you," I said.

* * *

I counted the years as they passed by, and when fifty more came and went, the thing I had long been waiting for occurred: the Company of Thorin Oakenshield came to take back the Mountain.


	2. Bilbo and Company

**Part Two: Bilbo and Company**

I counted the years as they passed by, and when fifty more came and went, the thing I had long been waiting for occurred: the Company of Thorin Oakenshield came to take back the Mountain.

At first I hadn't been sure that anything was going on, because birds had been pecking at the Mountain before and causing echoes, but then, as Smaug lay asleep, I felt a slight shift of air near one of the passages – a passage from which no air currents had ever come before.

Had Bilbo finally come? Was my captivity at its end? After all of my waiting... had the time truly arrived? It seemed too soon.

I lay silent and still, pretending to be asleep, and a little while later Smaug woke up, sniffed, and let out a stream of flame in a burst of anger. Then he turned to me, mouth glowing and eyes bright and terrible, and demanded, "Did you see anyone!?"

"No," I replied honestly.

"Someone has taken a cup – the one you used to drink from, twenty years ago!"

I remained quiet as he went off in a long rant, spitting harsh words and more flame, and then he snarled at me to bury myself in the treasure, piling it on top of me so that no piece of me could be seen, and he flew out of the hall in a fury, screeching out his anger.

All was silent in the hall, but I could hear the beat of his great wings and the roars he let loose. I kept still and silent until Smaug returned. When he was back, he rushed about the great hall and looked at each mound of gold to see if anything else were missing. When he could spot nothing but the single cup gone, he pulled me out with his claws, dragging long, thin scratches along the back of my thighs and my stomach. "Did any come down while I was away?" he asked madly, shaking me.

"No," I answered. "I saw and heard none."

"There were several horses," he muttered, putting me down at last. "They cannot flee on foot, else I will find them. They are yet hidden, but when I discover them, I shall devour them! I smell Dwarf, my treasure, and you shall taste it ere the snow falls!"

I didn't reply, thinking not only that there was no way I'd ever eat another humanoid creature, but also that Smaug would be dead by the time the first snow fell.

"You will sleep beneath my wing," he commanded. "I do not wish for this thief to steal you."

He tucked me beneath his wing, holding me tight against his too-warm body. If I had been human still, I would have been sweating like mad. As it was, it felt merely a bit stifling. I couldn't help but resent Bilbo for not having waited another day, because then I would have gotten to go outside once more before I faced possible death.

Because who knew what Smaug would do to me in his madness?

* * *

When next Bilbo came, I was astounded by his quick wit. He stood against Smaug blow for blow in a battle of wits, and Smaug was several millennia old! But then the Hobbit said something, something which I could recall him saying in the book (elvish memory was long, and my past could be recalled in clear detail) but which got a very different response from the one I'd read: "You don't know everything, O Smaug the Mighty," Bilbo said. "Not gold alone brought us hither."

Smaug reared up in a fury, spouting fire in the direction of the voice as he snarled, "The Princess is _mine_!"

"Who?" asked Bilbo, sounding entirely baffled.

Smaug settled down quickly after that, yanking me closer to his body as he hastily retorted to Bilbo's earlier statement in the manner which appeared in the book: "Ha! Ha! You admit the 'us'," he taunted. "Why not say 'us fourteen' and be done with it, Mr Lucky Number? I am pleased to hear that you had other business in these parts besides my gold. In that case you may, perhaps, not altogether waste your time."

And things went back on course after that, though I suspected that Bilbo had not forgotten Smaug's brief fury about a certain other reason for coming to the Mountain. I hoped that it wouldn't change anything; in fact, I hoped that my very being here wouldn't alter events.

Except Bilbo, who could not keep from a smart quip as he left in the book, did the same here – and added more, besides: "Well, I really must not detain Your Magnificence any longer, or keep you from much needed rest. Ponies take some catching, I believe, after a long start. And so do burglars – and Princesses, once they're rescued."

The sound Smaug made at that was more fearsome than any before: the dragon lost it completely. He dove for the tunnel he'd guessed Bilbo had come from and tried to claw in after the hobbit, snapping his jaws and snarling after poor Bilbo. When he did not hear the sounds of someone suffering or dying, he let loose another angry roar and turned to face me. I stumbled backwards, trying to get away, but he was a dragon and about a thousand times bigger than I was. "You will not leave with that _thief_," he hissed. "If you take one step out of this Mountain, I will make your death slow and painful. Do you understand, Carmen?"

He hadn't used my proper name in so long that I was startled at the sound of it, so unfamiliar did it seem to my ears. I snapped up to attention, standing tall, and vowed, "I will not take one step out of the Mountain, nor will I leave with the thief" whilst thinking that I would take several hundreds or thousands instead and that I would perhaps leave with Gandalf.

"You will not leave whilst I still live," he growled threateningly.

"I won't, Master Smaug, I promise."

"Good," he said.

Then he took me in his claws once more and carried me over to one of the smaller rooms surrounding the great hall, where he dropped me without warning. I fell to the ground and scraped my hands slightly, but was otherwise uninjured. I looked up just as the mighty doors slammed shut, closing me in. From behind it I could hear the sound of scraping, and knew immediately that Smaug was burying me in. There was nothing I could do to stop him, stubborn as he was, and nothing I wanted to do, besides. He'd be dead soon enough, and then I would be free of this room – and of him.

I couldn't help but feel a little frightened at that thought.

* * *

There I sat for three days, ear pressed against the door in an attempt to hear any noise the Company would make. I couldn't be sure that Smaug was dead, after all. My coming might have changed something. Maybe Bilbo wouldn't have noticed that empty patch of under-belly over Smaug's heart, or maybe Bilbo hadn't been able to escape the dragon's wrath. Or maybe Smaug had killed the entire Company and was even now laying waste to the land surrounding the Lonely Mountain. And what if that thrush had never heard Bilbo speak of Smaug's weakness? Bard wouldn't be able to shoot him dead, and the dragon would return. Then life would go back to normal, as it had been for the past hundred years.

I wasn't sure if that'd be a bad thing.

I knew Smaug. I knew his moods and how to soothe him for the most part, and how to avoid him when he was unreasonable. The rest of Middle-earth... the rest I knew nothing about, except for what Smaug had told me and what I could remember of the map I'd glanced at a century ago in _The Hobbit_. I had nowhere to go in all of Arda, no place to call home. The stars had soothed me all those years ago, and all the years since, but what if they were wrong? What if I didn't live long enough to dance and run beneath them? There was a battle coming, the Battle of Five Armies, and if I were for some reason forced to leave the Mountain before its conclusion (if the dwarves kicked me out), I would likely be killed. No one would be there to protect me.

After three days of silence, I finally heard the sound of the Gate closing and being barricaded while stone was worked. Smaug, I knew, never barricaded the door – he didn't need to. He couldn't work stone, either; he just blasted it with his flame or smashed it if it ever got in the way. This meant the dwarves and Bilbo had returned, which in turn meant Smaug was dead.

I took a few moments, maybe an hour or more, to just breathe, to calm my racing heart and still my trembling limbs.

Smaug was dead, and I had forever to look forward to beneath the starry skies.

I gathered myself and banged my fists on the door, shouting, "Open the door! Please! Let me out!"

Faintly I could hear a shout made beyond the door, and the sound of murmuring voices. I slammed my fists harder into the door and yelled myself hoarse. Even when I could hear the sound of the treasure being moved, I continued to shout and pound on the door, feeling a bit hysterical at the thought of seeing _people _for the first time in a hundred years. Tears were streaming down my face, caused by my tumultuous emotions: a mixture of joy, relief, fear, and anxiety.

The door was pulled open, and I blinked as the bright light of torches fell upon me. I heard several gasps and a few exclamations, and when my eyes finally adjusted I spotted thirteen dwarves and one hobbit gaping at me, eyes trying to remain on my face but inevitably slipping down every now and again.

And that's when I remembered that I was naked, something which hadn't bothered me at all past my first year in Erebor. Modesty was a learned trait, one that could be _un_learned if given enough time. A hundred years was more than time enough – it was even longer than the time I'd spent clothed as a human.

Despite having grown used to my nudity, I immediately felt embarrassed and covered myself. I leapt behind the door to hide my body while my head poked out so I could examine the people standing in Smaug's lair. They still hadn't moved, except to turn their eyes to look at me. "H-hello," I greeted shyly, nervously.

Bilbo was the first to move, startled by my speech. He jumped a good foot in the air and flew away, returning not even a minute later with a bag, which he rifled through for a pair of trousers, a shirt, a vest, and some suspenders. His small hands shook as he handed them to me, politely pointing his reddened face away. I gingerly took the clothes from him by stretching an arm around the door, and then I hid behind it and hastily pulled them on.

It took me a little while to work out how to wear them (which was the front, how to do up all the buttons and attach the suspenders) but when I finally managed, I stared down at my clothed body in fascination. It was strange to wear clothes again after so many years without, now that they seemed nothing more than an unnecessary luxury. The material seemed to scratch my skin, and it felt itchy and stifling and constricting, but I knew it would be improper for me to walk about naked now that there were people here – and it might cause something even more unfortunate than abduction by an asexual dragon. Not that I thought the dwarves or Bilbo were _rapists_, but, well... they were humanoid males, in any case. Like with Smaug, I didn't want to take any chances with these new people I was confronted with.

When I was dressed and I'd run my hands along the material for a little while, marveling at it, I peered around the door and then shifted slightly out from behind it. I stared at the people standing in front of me, who stared back with utter confusion. Then Bilbo cleared his throat and asked, "Are you the Princess Smaug spoke of?"

"Yes," I replied, and then unnecessarily added, "I've been here a hundred years now."

"You're an Elf!" one of the dwarves exclaimed, sounding slightly disgusted.

"I guess so," I said.

"What do you mean, you 'guess so'?" another asked.

I was a bit overwhelmed at being questioned by Dwarves, a people I'd only read about and later heard about from Smaug (mainly long soliloquies on how tasty they were). I didn't think I should mention anything Smaug told me... though the dwarves might be flattered that they tasted better than Elves...

"I don't think we should press her," Bilbo ventured. "She likely hasn't spoken to anyone but Smaug for a long time..."

"I haven't," I admitted. Suddenly a thought occurred to me, and I blurted out in question, "Is the sun up?"

"Nay, it is night," a dwarf replied.

"Oh," I sighed sadly.

"Why?"

"I haven't seen the sun since I came here," I answered. "Master Smaug – I mean Smaug, just Smaug now... – he only brought me out at night, and even then it was only once a year. Actually, you entered the Mountain the day I was meant to go outside... do you think I could go now?"

"Of course, lass," a kindly-looking dwarf replied. "We aren't dragons; we won't keep you locked up!"

I beamed at him and, without offering another word, sprinted off in the direction of the Front Gate, leaping up the narrow steps three at a time until I stood at the very top, where nothing blocked the outdoors. I breathed in deeply, spreading my arms as though in flight, and the wind tore at my hair and borrowed clothes. The stars greeted me merrily, twinkling down on my upturned face, and I shouted out a hello to them, and then, in true elvish fashion, I burst into song:

_"Twinkle, twinkle, little star,  
How I wonder what you are!  
Up above the world so high,  
Like a diamond in the sky!_

_When the blazing sun is gone,_  
_When she nothing shines upon,_  
_Then you show your little light,_  
_Twinkle, twinkle, all the night._

_Then the traveller in the dark,_  
_Thanks you for your tiny spark,_  
_He could not see which way to go,_  
_If you did not twinkle so._

_In the dark blue sky you keep,_  
_And often through my curtains peep,_  
_For you never shut your eye,_  
_Till the sun is in the sky._

_As your bright and tiny spark,_  
_Lights the traveller in the dark,_  
_Though I know not what you are,_  
_Twinkle, twinkle, little star!"_  
_(** Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star – lullaby)_

"I've never heard that song," someone said from beside me.

I jumped and turned around to face Bilbo, staring at him through wide, unblinking eyes. He shifted slightly from foot to foot and fiddled with the buttons on his coat, unnerved under my wide, unblinking gaze. I'd forgotten how quiet Hobbits were supposed to be able to move – his moments were quieter than my elvish ears could catch!

"My mother used to sing it to me," I offered at last, blinking.

"It's a lovely song," he assured me.

I nodded, then turned back to stare some more at the sky and the vast, open vale before me. I wanted to jump in the river and swim; I wanted to sprint through the empty dale; I wanted to climb the trees I could see in the distance; but, most of all, I wanted to dance in circles, spinning faster and faster until all the world blended together and I was surrounded with colours other than silver and gold and stone.

"Are you hungry?" he wondered after a while.

"Oh, yes," I answered. "Master – I mean Smaug locked me in there three days ago, when he left. I haven't eaten since."

Bilbo looked properly horrified, hobbit that he was, and he set off down the stairs right away, calling back, "Then you must eat something at once!"

But when we got to the food supply, the dwarves didn't want to share. "She's an Elf," one said, as though that were reason enough.

"She's starving," Bilbo snapped in reply. "She's gone three days without food! We can't let her starve to death!"

He was such a dear. But I didn't want to cause a ruckus, so I said, "It's alright, I still have some of mine left. You're welcome to share it, Barrel-rider, and your friends as well."

"What sort of food?" the hobbit wondered, looking curious yet weary all at once.

I saw immediately that he was thinking of something along the lines of Man or Dwarf, so I told him, "I still have some mutton and wild boar. It's all smoked though, I warn you. I've had to cook it that way to help preserve it, so Mast-Smaug didn't have to go hunting so often."

"Mutton and wild boar!" the dwarves exclaimed, sounding friendly at last.

I almost snorted at that, then I led them to the place I stored my food. It was a large cupboard with a fireplace nearby, and also a well. Beside the well, on a rickety old table, sat a magnificent cup, the last one Smaug had given me to use before his death, and a golden bejewelled plate.

"That is my grandfather Thror's cup!" a dwarf I now knew to be Thorin shouted, picking it up with a greedy gleam in his eyes, one I had often seen in Smaug's as he looked upon his hoard or upon me.

"Then you may drink from it," I offered. "The water in the well is still good, though it is cold."

He turned to me angrily and growled, "You drank from this cup? It is the cup of the King under the Mountain! None but _he _may drink from it!"

I stared at him as though he were nuts, then enunciated, "Smaug gave it to me; I wasn't about to refuse. It's yours, though, so do with it what you will."

"And what of the gold you wear?" he demanded.

I blinked in surprise, looking down at myself as I spotted the sparkle of gems and the shimmer of silver and gold. "I'd almost forgotten," I muttered to myself.

"Forgotten!" another dwarf cried. "You wear riches fit for a king, and you have forgotten?"

"She _is_ a princess," Bilbo reminded them.

I didn't bother correcting him; it might help me if they believed me to be royalty of some kind. Besides, I was so accustomed to being called 'Princess' that I barely thought anything of it anymore. It was just as much my name as Carmen and 'treasure', really, after the many years I'd been called it.

I turned to my cupboard and opened it up, showcasing the large amount of meat that sat upon a number of golden platters. I took only one out and gave it to the dwarves, picking up a single fair-sized piece of boar for myself, and passed another of the same size to the kind hobbit. The dwarves looked disappointed, so I explained, "I don't know how long you're planning on staying here, but if you're as short on supplies as I reckon you are, it's probably best to save the rest. It won't go bad for a while yet."

A few of the dwarves nodded in agreement, and some even thanked me for sharing, but Thorin stood there and stared at the jewellery I wore until a white-bearded dwarf pulled him away. I was feeling a bit territorial about the stuff, since I'd been wearing most of it for nigh eighty years (when Smaug had first started rewarding me with treasure). I didn't want to part with it; it felt like it was a part of me, and the treasure felt more natural than Bilbo's clothes did, that was for certain.

I abruptly recalled that I hadn't actually been introduced to anyone, which could be dangerous should I slip up, and I quickly told Bilbo and whatever dwarves were listening, "I'm Carmen."

"Sorry?" Bilbo apologized after swallowing a mouthful of smoked meat. Then he added, "This is very good!"

I smiled wryly and said, "Much better than my first meal... And I said 'I'm Carmen'. It's my name – you could call me Carm, though, if you like. My – my friends and family used to call me that, before... well, before."

"Oh! Where are my manners? Bilbo Baggins, at your service! My companions are: Bofur, Bifur, Bombur, Nori, Ori, Dori, Oin, Gloin, Balin, Dwalin, Fili, Kili, and Thorin. Thorin is King under the Mountain, and Fili and Kili are his nephews and Heirs Apparent."

"Nice to meet you," I mumbled, feeling nervous under so many gazes in the bright torchlight.

"So what's this about your first meal?" a dwarf – I believe it was Bofur – asked, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen after Bilbo's introduction and the dwarves' 'At your service's (half-assed or absent, for the most part).

"Oh," I sputtered, "I don't – I don't think it's quite appropriate for the dinner table."

"Come on," the one introduced as Kili urged. "We're dwarf-warriors, not maidens!"

I gave him a dry look, which he understood immediately (because _I'm _a maiden, obviously) and began to look sheepish, but I humoured him all the same. Partly because he was Thorin's nephew, and partly because he was a member of the Company – either way, being polite would maybe get these dwarves to let me wait out the coming battle within these strong walls.

"He threw down a deer's leg and expected me to eat it raw," I stated plainly. "When I told him uncooked meat would make me ill, he set it alight until it was charcoal."

"Well, we eat mother's cooking all the time," the other brother joked, "and it can't have been much worse than that!"

I gave him a smile, feeling pleased that he'd not pitied me and instead joked. It almost felt normal, if you forgot the fact that he was a Dwarf and I an Elf – and that we were in the Lonely Mountain just before the Battle of the Five Armies.

The dwarves were a bit friendlier after that, especially Thorin's nephews and Bofur and Bombur, who'd asked about my manner of smoking the meat. He got a great laugh out of the many failures I told him about, and it made me beam to know that I could still interact with people and get normal responses. My social abilities hadn't really been stunted, since I'd had Smaug to talk to and he was a master of conversation, but I'd been deeply afraid that I wouldn't be able to speak properly to other people. I thought that I might say something that would offend them, or make them think me strange, but I'd grown so weary in what I allowed to leave my lips that I rarely made any of the dwarves angry.

* * *

My favourite person, by far, was Bilbo. He was kind and thoughtful and he oftentimes distracted the dwarves when the interaction got to be a bit too much for me – especially when Thorin came over to me and gripped me by the shirt, demanding, "The Arkenstone! The Arkenstone! Where have you hidden it?"

I shook my head and tried to pull away from him, but he was stronger than I and held fast, even bringing me closer to his mad eyes. "I don't have it, and I've not looked at it much at all," I quickly answered. "It makes me feel greedy, and I don't like it."

What it really made me feel was utterly terrified, because the stone played such a crucial role in _The Hobbit _and I hadn't wanted to affect that. So I'd left it well enough alone, hidden wherever it was since last I saw it seventy years ago. The piles of gold had been shifted as Smaug rearranged the 'furniture', so I didn't actually know where it was.

"Where did you last see it?" he demanded.

"It was near the place Bilbo came in," I lied, "but Mast-Smaug has moved things about since then, in his wrath."

Thorin let me go and rushed over to the pile nearest the hidden entrance, which was actually the pile that was farthest away from where I'd last seen it. My eyes met Bilbo's, and from the look on his face I knew that he knew I'd lied to Thorin – and I knew that _he _had the Arkenstone hidden in his pillow. Not that he knew that I knew, I don't think, but he suspected I knew _something_.

I went over to him and casually (as casually as possible, given the circumstance) asked, "So, there are armies gathering?"

"Yes," he replied faintly. "Armies of Men and of Elves have entered the valley, likely come to demand some of Thorin's gold."

"And your gold," I reminded him. "From what you told Mast-Smaug – Smaug, Smaug, Smaug, not Master anymore! – you have a fourteenth share in this. Don't you care that they're after it?"

"I'd just as soon as give them my share if it would keep us from fighting," he confided.

I smiled, and I could tell that he sensed some secret behind the expression because he eyed me suspiciously, but I just shook my head and commended, "Then you're a wise person, Bilbo Baggins."

He blushed and stammered, trying to wave off the compliment, but he was both sufficiently distracted from my slip and praised as he should be. I'd liked Bilbo when I'd read the story. He didn't mean to come on this adventure, and yet, despite his fear and his desire to return home, he plowed through and pulled off many amazing feats while he was at it (and all the while yearned for his arm chair, handkerchiefs, and tea-kettle). The fact that he often complained and whined during the first part of his journey just made him more human, more believable. How many could go on such a quest and not miss the comforts of home? Bilbo was very _real_, and he was a hero because he didn't let his discomfort and fear control him. He was the definition of the 'underdog', of the unlikely hero, and I admired him for it.

"Actually," he announced loudly enough for the dwarves to hear, "I'd like for the treasure you wear to be taken from my share of the hoard."

I stared at him in silent awe, feeling gratitude like none I'd ever felt. _This _was why Bilbo was my favourite: how many other people could give up riches to make a stranger happy? I threw my arms about the hobbit and hugged him close. "Thank you," I whispered through tears. "I want to be rid of this place, but I didn't want to part with these, given though they were by Smaug. They're as much a part of me as my hair is anymore."

"Then I'm glad," Bilbo said, patting me awkwardly on the back.

I pulled away and gave him a watery smile before heading back to the Gate, to climb up and breathe the fresh air – and watch the sun rise, as it turned out.

The sky, once black and blanketed with stars, began to turn into a deep navy and paler still as dawn drew near. The stars vanished, whispering their goodbyes, and the sky shone clear and pale. I stared unblinkingly at the eastern sky, watching and waiting until a bright light flashed in the great distance and shone in my eyes. The sun was rising, and the cool morning rays bathed the earth, creeping closer and closer to the Lonely Mountain. The light rose steadily, and I stared at the valley before me as the sunlight ran swiftly forward, faster than any bird, and it soon reached me.

I closed my eyes and sucked in the chilled air of dawn while sunlight bathed my pale skin. A smile covered my face even as tears filled my eyes, and, once more, I began to sing:

_"Here comes the sun_  
_Here comes the sun, and I say_  
_It's all right_

_Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter_  
_Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here_  
_Here comes the sun_  
_Here comes the sun, and I say_  
_It's all right_

_Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces_  
_Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here_  
_Here comes the sun_  
_Here comes the sun, and I say_  
_It's all right_

_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes_  
_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes_  
_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes_  
_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes_  
_Sun, sun, sun, here it comes_

_Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting_  
_Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear_  
_Here comes the sun_  
_Here comes the sun, and I say_  
_It's all right_

_Here comes the sun_  
_Here comes the sun, and I say_  
_It's all right_  
_It's all right"_

_(**"Here Comes the Sun", The Beatles)_

"Do Elves sing every time they feel emotions?"

I turned to Fili, who I knew would die in the coming battle, and shrugged while wiping my eyes. "I wouldn't know," I admitted after a moment's silence, "I've never met another Elf."

His eyes rounded and he sputtered, "Has Smaug kept you here since you were a babe?"

"I was twenty-two when I got here," I replied, avoiding a direct answer.

I didn't want to have to tell anyone about my whole 'otherworldliness' – at least, not until after I saw Gandalf. He was a wizard, so he could probably help me. I still had that bit of elven-wrought mithril in my nose, so maybe he could discern something from it. If he had the power – and if a hundred years hadn't passed on Earth as it had here – I might be able to go back. My hopes were not high, but anything the wizard could tell me was welcome. Knowing for certain that I could not return would stop the flood of 'what ifs', in any case.

"Erebor has been your home for all your life, then?" Fili questioned.

"If you want to call a dragon's lair home... It's yours now, though. I'll be on my way soon enough – except, I heard that there would probably be a battle, and, well, if you wouldn't mind... I was wondering if, maybe, I could stay here until it was over?" I requested haltingly.

Fili couldn't exactly grant me sanctuary, he wasn't Thorin, but he _was _Heir Apparent and the King's nephew. He might be able to convince Thorin that I ought to be allowed to stay while the fighting was going on, and then I could leave when the battle was won and the goblins and wolves were either killed or run off.

"You would have to ask my uncle to grant you refuge," Fili answered carefully, "but I will speak to him on your behalf."

"Thank you."

* * *

I stayed out there for a long time with Fili at my side, until my keen eyes spotted Men and Elves in the distance, just specs on the horizon, but they were coming forward. I ducked down immediately in an effort not to be seen, and whispered to Fili, "Don't tell them I'm here!"

"Why?" he queried.

"The elves might try to take me with them or something," I hissed. "I don't want to go to Mirkwood; it sounds like a horrible place!"

Thorin appeared behind me, just in time to hear my hushed plea to his nephew, and he glared down at my crouched form with suspicion. "Are you from Mirkwood?"

"No," I denied, "but Bilbo has told me a little about it, and it was more than enough to convince me that I do not wish to live there."

"Do you know these elves?"

"No, I don't know any elves from Mirkwood or Rivendell – or even Lothlórien or Mithlond, which Smaug has told me a bit about."

The King bent his head a little, to better meet my eyes, and he inquired, "If you truly are a princess, from which kingdom did Smaug take you?"

"America," I half lied.

"I have not heard of it."

"It's gone; I don't think I'll ever see it again..." I trailed off, and then stated firmly, "These elves will not know me. If you would grant me sanctuary until the time this quarrel is over, I would be in your debt."

"And why should I harbour an Elf?" he challenged.

My mouth opened and shut soundlessly as I tried to think of any argument in my favour. The only one I could come up with was that I'd asked, and that if he were kind at all, he would grant me my request. Unfortunately, Thorin was a Dwarf and I an Elf. While Bilbo, his nephews, and Bofur and Bombur were friendly with me, he himself was not. I still hadn't forgotten about the cup or the Arkenstone incidents, either.

"I – what if I'm killed? What if they kill me?" I questioned breathlessly. "I'm safe _here_, at least, and – and I've shared my food with you!"

"You have also lived without leave in my Mountain," he countered.

"But what if they shoot me, or stab me – or burn me?"

"That is not my problem," he snorted. "Elves claim to treat one another with great kindness. Let us see how hospitable these Wood-elves are to one of their own kin."

I blinked quickly to dry my dampening eyes and swallowed the lump that tried to lodge itself in my throat; I fisted the tails of my borrowed shirt and my nails cut through even that material to dig into my palms. "You'll turn me away?" I whispered.

"Uncle," Fili interrupted, "she's a victim of the dragon's greed. She says she has been here since she was but a babe, and this has been her home for many a year."

"And yet it is not her home at all – she did not even know the location of the Arkenstone!"

"She herself was part of the dragon's treasure," his nephew stated a bit cunningly.

Thorin was about to reply, but then his gaze was pulled back within the Mountain, in the direction of the dragon's hoard, and madness seemed to fill him once more. He turned to me, dragon-sickness in his eyes, and examined my form, taking in my long hair, the delicate point of my ears, my face and neck and body, all the way down to my dirty, bare feet. As he looked at me, his greed-filled eyes would fall on the jewellery given to me by Smaug and gifted to me by Bilbo. He stopped especially long to stare at the stud in my nose, which glowed silver in the light, and at the mithril circlet that sat upon my head – and especially at the small red stone that was cradled in the delicately carved vines above my brow.

"You would take her as part of your share?" Thorin asked roughly.

My eyes flickered over to the younger dwarf, who had seemingly turned to stone. Fili watched his uncle with shaded eyes, and his face was hidden from me. I held my breath as the air filled with tension. Thorin had just asked if Fili would possess me, like an _object_, like I wasn't even _human _(_humanoid_).

"Would you?" Thorin repeated.

Fili cleared his throat and his eyes darted over to my still form. Then he faced his uncle once more and nodded. "I would," he declared.

"And if I said I wanted her?"

Fili almost took a step back, but his voice was steady as he replied, "Then she is yours, if you should desire her, for it is your right to choose before me, Uncle."

Thorin frowned at his nephew for a short while before he nodded abruptly and proclaimed, "She is yours. Do with her what you will, but do not allow the elves to see her."

"Of course," Fili obliged, bowing.

The young dwarf gently took my arm and guided me down the stairs. "What will you do with me?" I queried faintly.

He stopped walking, making me pause as well, and, without looking at me, he answered, "I don't know."

"Then why did you do that? I thought I was free, and now – now I'm objectified once more!"

"If I had not said I would take you," he coolly explained, "then my uncle would have sent you away. You wished to stay within the Mountain until the men and the elves end their attempted siege, and so you will remain."

"What about after?" I wondered.

"If there is battle and I should live, then we will discuss it."

"And - and if you die?"

I hadn't wanted to ask that, especially since he _would _die if the story followed its proper course, but it was something I needed to know _because _of his upcoming demise. When he died, would the other dwarves try to keep me here, or would they let me go, seeing that only madness had caused Thorin to ask Fili such a question? I didn't want to stay in Erebor, no matter how familiar its darkness was to me. I desired sunlight and grass and trees and the sky, _the stars_, not cold, hard stone devoid of life.

Fili clenched his jaw and refused to look at me as he asserted, "Then it is up to my uncle and the rest of the Company to decide your fate."

* * *

I was left alone after that, to sit in the morning light and stew over my precarious position. Thorin would die, as would Fili – and Kili – and there would be no one to head the Company as King under the Mountain, which meant that I'd either have to contend with the rest of them for my freedom or escape into the night like Bilbo would soon do with the Arkenstone.

Bofur and Bombur would no doubt agree to let me go, and I couldn't see Ori being cruel – he was still young and a bit innocent, despite this adventure. Balin might decide it wise to let me go, but, then again, he and Nori might want to use me as leverage of some kind against the elves of Mirkwood.

The rest I wasn't too sure about.

Dori was polite enough, though he stayed out of my way, and Gloin appeared rather leery of me. Oin could go either way, though he'd likely agree with whatever his brother decided. I couldn't understand a word Bifur said, so there wasn't any way for me to guess about him. As for Dwalin... he would probably follow his brother as well.

Bilbo, if they counted his vote, would be entirely against keeping me locked up.

So that was four for sure out of eleven, or three out of ten if Bilbo was not included in the bargaining.

If they didn't agree to let me go, I'd have to run. It was too bad I couldn't ask to borrow Bilbo's magic ring!

* * *

Thorin greeted the elves and men in his proud way, yet none returned the greeting. They turned away and Thorin glared at their retreating backs until he could no longer see them, and then he appointed Nori as watcher and went back into the Mountain to search for the Arkenstone some more. Most of the dwarves followed him, either to stare mindlessly at the treasure or to help him in his search, but I stayed where I was, and Bilbo soon joined me.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm sure Fili won't – do anything untoward to you. He will probably let you go once this storm blows over."

"Yeah," I mumbled, sounding doubtful. "If he doesn't," I whispered in quiet admission, "then I'll escape. I don't know where I'll go, but I'll figure something out."

"But that would be dangerous!"

"Probably," I agreed.

"Didn't you want to stay here to be safe?" he asked, aghast.

I huffed out a quiet laugh and wondered, "Why should I stay? Because it's familiar? Because I have no home of my own? No, when this gathering of clouds has burst, I'll be off somewhere far, far away. It might not be easy, I admit, and it scares the life out of me to think about, but staying here isn't an option. I'd be passed down generations of dwarves like some family heirloom if they kept me, or like a pet cat or a slave... No, I couldn't stay here."

Bilbo was silent as he furrowed his brow in thought. He considered me and the surrounding halls, and then he quietly suggested, "You could come with me, if I live through this. The road home to the Shire passes through Rivendell, and you could live there if you wanted. It's nothing at all like Mirkwood: the air is open to the sky, and most of the windows don't even have glass or shutters. I'm sure Lord Elrond would take you in. If he doesn't... then you could stay with me in Bag End – until you make other arrangements, I mean."

"Oh, Bilbo," I sighed, "you're the kindest person I've ever met."

He turned red and stuttered a bit, but eventually managed to clear his throat and change the subject. We spent the rest of the day chatting, and he told me all about the Shire and how he spent his days there. Occasionally I would share with him a few of my experiences with Smaug, but I made sure to stay away from the scarier ones and stuck close to the humorous or witty exchanges the dragon would drag me into when he was awake and in want of conversation. Bilbo quite enjoyed hearing about the wise people Smaug had met (and subsequently killed, though I made no mention of that), and I liked hearing about his peaceful home and life.

I also ate cram for the first time, and while the taste left something to be desired, it was _bread_, not _meat_, and that made me happy. Bilbo watched on in amusement as I waxed poetic over the piece he gave me. "I'm rather sick of it myself," he confessed, "and I'd trade you my cram for the meat you cooked if I could!"

"Deal," I claimed immediately. "You eat the meat, I'll eat the cram. Ye gods, I have not eaten anything but meat in a century! Blech! I think I might become a vegetarian..."

"A what?"

"A vegetarian: someone who eats fruits and grains and vegetables, but no meat at all. Animal products like eggs and milk and cheese are acceptable, but nothing else is."

"The elves in Rivendell served us a _vegetarian _meal," he shared. "The dwarves were rather unhappy about it until the meat finally arrived. I think they waited a bit on purpose, just to tease us. They're a jolly folk and very kind, but sometimes a bit too cheery, if you get my meaning."

I nodded, remembering clearly the teasing words the silly elves had sung as Thorin and Company entered the hidden valley. Elves could be a bit callous when it came to words, it seemed to me. I didn't much understand how they could joke so lightly about things that made others uncomfortable or upset – but, then again, I had lived for an incredibly long time and oftentimes it was only the small joys or comforts I got that sustained me while I stayed in Smaug's lair. Elves probably had their own way of dealing with immortality, and being cheery jokesters was likely the key to maintaining their sanity.

* * *

Evening came, and sounds were heard loud and clear outside the Mountain: elvish song and cheer echoed in the valley below us. A thought occurred to me then, that the elves and men had decided to wage psychological warfare on the dwarves. By the looks on the Company's faces, it was working splendidly. Then Balin, seeming to come to the same conclusion I did, turned about and sought the treasury and dragged a few other dwarves with him. They returned with golden harps and wind instruments, and began playing them straight away.

Their song was proud and spoke of victory and the revival of their old halls, which cheered Thorin, but this song did not match the joy of the elvish music in the dale. I kept back, watching as the King spoke with the Company, all of them wondering when Dain would arrive from the Iron Hills with his army. Bilbo and I shared a look at the talk and the song, neither of us enjoying the thought of having open war at our doorstep.

It couldn't be helped, though, for the next day the men and elves came again and Thorin turned them away twice, not in the least convinced that he owed the men of Lake-town or the Elvenking a thing. I agreed that the Elvenking didn't deserve a cent at this point, since he hadn't offered aid to the dwarves when the dragon had first come and he'd imprisoned the dwarves earlier, but Bardhad killed Smaug, and surely _he_ deserved something.

To be honest, I thought they were all a greedy lot and should just be thankful that the dragon was gone and they could now all live in peace. Bilbo agreed with me there, when I muttered it, but Thorin rather furiously stated that there would only be peace when the elves and men went away – but especially when the elves went away. I tried not to flinch at that, but wasn't really able to suppress or hide my reaction.

Long days were spent in the hoard, with the dwarves picking and choosing their share of the treasure while Bilbo and I watched on wearily. Fili would sometimes look at me as he no doubt wondered what he'd do with me when all was said and done. As of yet he hadn't asked anything of me – in fact, he'd left me alone for the most part, speaking to me no more. It made for some awkward experiences because Thorin insisted I sleep near his nephew's things (as I was, supposedly, part of the dwarf's share) and the dwarves argued about my worth and how it would detract from Fili's fourteenth. I didn't know if I should be insulted or not, since some dwarves said I was worth little, and others said I was worth a fairly large amount, while still some (Bombur and Bofur and Kili and Ori) said that it wasn't right that I be named part of the treasury, even if I had been considered treasure by the dragon.

Thorin issued a Mountain-wide threat to dispose of any who would find and keep the Arkenstone to his – or _her_, he said with suspicion – self. Bilbo looked ill when he said so, and I was reminded that soon the hobbit would flee like 'A Thief in the Night', as the chapter was titled, and bring the Arkenstone to Bard and the Elvenking. I didn't know when it would happen, but I wanted to pull him aside and tell him not to say anything to anyone about my presence here. I didn't want the knowledge to disrupt anything.

* * *

I caught the hobbit alone two days after Thorin's warning.

"Bilbo," I begged, "whatever you do, whoever you speak to, do _not _mention me. Please."

He gulped and fingered his front pocket, where he kept his magic ring. He shook his head wildly and looked around to be sure no one was near us – and no one was, because I'd made sure of it – and only when he was sure we were alone and out of earshot did he dare ask, "What is it you think I will do, and whom do you think I will speak to?"

I smiled a Mona Lisa smile full of secrets and said, "I know you have it, and I know you're going to go down in the valley to speak with Bard and the Elvenking."

"H-how?" he stuttered.

"You learn to read minute expressions when you're at risk of being burned alive or eaten," I informed him dryly, "and you've had guilty written all over you since Thorin mentioned that thing. Not to mention, after the talking raven gave its news about Dain's approach, you looked doomed. Now, you look resolved. So I'm telling you to please not mention me, whenever it is you go and to whomever you speak."

What I didn't tell him was that the main reason I could read him so well was because I already knew what he'd done and planned on doing. I might have learned to read Smaug, but that didn't directly mean I could read Hobbits or Dwarves or Elves or Men just as well. If I hadn't known about Bilbo's plan to the exact detail already, I probably wouldn't have mentioned anything – or I might have mentioned something at the wrong time and ruined everything.

"You won't tell?" he wondered meekly with his hand in his pocket.

"I promise I won't," I swore.

"Do you think that – that I'm doing the right thing?" he inquired.

I looked at the hobbit then and saw that even though he was resolved, he was also scared. He was scared to be going out alone in the dark, to face Bard and the Elvenking alone, and he was scared to be going behind the backs of his friends, betraying them. He was between a rock and a hard place: did he stick it out with his friends and starve, or did he try to prevent a likely bloody fight?

"There is often a choice between what is right and what is easy," I paraphrased Albus Dumbledore before going on to quote him, "A wise man once said, 'It takes a great deal of courage to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends'. What you're planning is not easy, Bilbo, and it requires you to do something your friends will not like. But I think it's the right thing to do, if only because your intentions are pure."

He looked simultaneously relieved and disappointed; relieved that I supported him and disappointed that I did not try to stop him from doing something he knew would earn the ire of his friends, if they ever found out. "You speak kind words," he lamented, "but I fear they may lead to trouble."

I chuckled a bit and said, "I stand by what I said. And if this road leads to trouble, then let it be brief."

We shared a smile and then casually separated, heading in different directions to pretend as though we hadn't had a conversation. No one knew that we had spoken alone that day, and I was glad of it, for when the dead of night arrived, Bilbo got up and went to relieve Bombur at the gate. When the dwarf came down into the Mountain, where it was warm and dark and all were asleep except for me, I knew that Bilbo had gone and I silently wished him the best of luck.

* * *

Bilbo came back before midnight and woke Bombur, who thanked him quietly and then woke Gloin for his turn at watch. I lay silent and still as though in sleep, observing them through my open and unblinking eyes. They wouldn't be able to tell the difference between wakefulness and sleep on me, so I was safe if they caught sight of my eyes. Bilbo curled up tightly in a ball, both for warmth and for comfort, and I felt my heart go out to him at once. He'd be right about thrown out of the Mountain come daybreak, the poor dear.

Morning came, and the dwarves all gathered along the top of the Gate or at the base with ears perked. I stood behind Bilbo on the stairs, subtly pressing a hand against his shoulder in a show of support. I wouldn't be able to speak up if I wanted to remain safe in the Mountain when the goblins and the wolves came, so I had to let him take the fall by himself – and he would, for it was in his character and he would have done so anyway, regardless of my presence.

When Thorin shouted down to the elves and men, "How came you by it?" he slowly turned inward, toward the inside of the Mountain, and toward me.

I nearly tripped down the stairs in my shock and fright, so fearsome was his expression, but Bilbo saved me by squeaking, "I gave it to them!"

My hand squeezed his shoulder lightly before I let go and stepped back. The hobbit turned to me with understanding in his eyes, and I looked at him with apology and shame in mine. If I were stronger, I would stand by him. I would leave the Mountain with him and say, "Fuck the dwarves!" But I wasn't stronger, so I didn't. I was too scared of the coming battle, too terrified at the thought of wolves and goblins, beasts I had only read about and heard tell from Smaug.

And I wasn't ready to leave Erebor, truth be told. I wanted to be outside and free; but, at the same time, I wanted to crawl beneath a mound of gold and hide like I'd done sometimes when Smaug was in a mood.

Thorin threw a conniption – and very nearly threw Bilbo off the wall, to my absolute horror. He picked the hobbit right up and held him above his head, ready to send him to his death, when Gandalf spoke and somehow managed to convince Thorin to let Bilbo leave without coming to harm – except for retracting his fourteenth share of the gold. Then the King turned to me with a snarl, but Bilbo quickly interrupted the new attack of psychosis: "She had nothing to do with this! She didn't know I had the stone, and didn't tell me to do any of what I did!"

No, I'd just suggested he go through with it. I was still an accessory to the crime – but Thorin didn't need to know that, and Bilbo didn't want to jeopardize my safety. I gave the little hobbit a hug and told him to be safe, and then he was sent down into the arms of the men and elves and wizard. But, much like what happened with Smaug, Bilbo could not keep his head when it came to his goodbyes: "Farewell!" he cried. "We may meet again as friends! Have hope, Carmen!"

Thorin threatened him off again, and the people at the Gate retreated once more – but I heard, on the wind, Gandalf's voice asking Bilbo, "Who is Carmen?"

I mentally cursed and prayed that Bilbo would keep his mouth tightly closed. If he mentioned anything about my being an elf, and especially about my being given to Fili, I was nearly one hundred percent certain that the elves would be of a different mind entirely than merely waiting out the dwarves' reply to the trade for the Arkenstone. Bilbo had better heed my request and remain silent – or, at the very least, refrain from telling them I was an elf. If he didn't... there might be outright war before the time was right.

* * *

I was brought back down to the treasury and told to stay put and to keep away from the Gate so that none could sight me. Thorin was furious, and madness gleamed in his eyes, the dragon-sickness fully having a hold on him. I sat on the pieces Fili had chosen, leaning against the pile with crossed arms as I followed the King with my eyes. I wondered for a moment how Thorin would have behaved around me had we not been within this mountain, within this hoard where the dragon's scent and magic lingered. He might not have been the kindest, but I suspected that he would have at least been accommodating and courteous.

I would never fully see Thorin as he ought to have been, free from the illness brought on by the dragon's long presence in the Mountain and free from the greed the gold evoked in him, until his last moments.

* * *

A few days after Bilbo left, horns were heard above the ground. We all hastened to the Gate, as the sound meant Dain had finally come from the Iron Hills. For the dwarves this meant they had back-up, and for me this meant the Battle of Five Armies was about to begin. I hung around at the base of the great doors, wondering if I ought to just go back to the hoard and wait this out there. Men came to the gate, to make one last plea for gold, and they were sent away in a rush of arrows.

In some ways I admired Thorin's Company. They stood by their King regardless of his madness, so loyal were they – but so stubborn, as well. They planned to wait for Dain to send for more dwarves so that they'd have more than enough to beat both the Elvenking and the Lake-men, but their plans were for naught. Darkness came swiftly, and bat-wings were heard flying overhead while wolf and goblin cries sounded in the near distance.

Not a single member of the Company had expected it (indeed, none but I had conceived such a thing), and they all stood indecisively as the sounds of battle came from outside. At last Thorin stood and lifted his sword high as he cried, "I would see this Mountain in the hands of Elves ere I saw it in the possession of Goblins and Wolves!"

The dwarves around him rallied and fetched their armour and weapons, quickly readying themselves for battle. As Thorin directed the dwarves to destroy part of the wall in order to let them out, Fili turned to me and advised, "You had best hide yourself in the treasury; find a weapon and be prepared to fight should goblins or wolves breach the wall when we are through."

I stared at him, and knowledge crushed me for an instant as I realized that this was the last time I would see him – or Kili and Thorin, for that matter. Rather impulsively, I wound my arms tightly around his shorter frame and hugged him tightly. "Good luck," I managed to choke out.

Then I was running through the halls and down the stairs as I made for the hoard. When I was within the room, I lit up all the wall torches and rifled through Fili's pile for the short-sword I knew was there somewhere. I found it at last and then ran to Ori's pile and picked up the lightest coat of mail. It was still too heavy for me, though, so I had to either put it back or risk getting myself killed by being unable to move quickly. I wondered for a minute if I ought not to stand my ground and face any coming enemy head on, but then I figured that hiding would be best – I could hide until I spotted my foe, and then I could take him by surprise.

* * *

I waited and waited in silence, barely daring to breathe because I had no way of knowing whether any wolf or goblin got into the mountain, since Tolkien had never written about it. My waiting was in vain. No goblin or wolf came, and a full day later, when the battle had long since passed and the wounded had been tended and the dead gathered for burial, footsteps echoed down the halls toward the hoard. I heard no voices, and I tensed while they drew nearer and nearer.

At last, five figures entered the hall. I watched them from behind a large pile of gold, hidden in the shadows. The torches had burned down quite some time ago, but they still gave off a soft glow. I had placed myself in a spot without any flame behind me, and I made no shadow and no sound, so none of the five could see me – though I could see them.

Balin was in the lead, and I was mighty glad to see a familiar face. Though I hadn't much spoken to him, and I rather suspected he would have quickly used me for leverage against the Elvenking if he needed to, I recognized him as being intelligent and loyal to his King. We weren't friends, and we'd barely spoken but a few words to one another, but I _knew _him, unlike the other four.

I recognized Gandalf with his hat and Bard with his bow, and there was one I believed to be the Elvenking with a crown of holly upon his head. The final dwarf I did not know or recognize, but I suspected him to be Dain, the one who would rule Erebor now that Thorin was dead.

I bit my bottom lip and remained motionless and silent as Balin presented the dragon's treasure to them. I thought the whole thing was rather odd, since I had assumed that the dwarves would not let any elves into the Mountain – but then I heard Balin call for me, and I knew that this was the reason the Elvenking had been allowed inside.

"Princess Carmen," Balin called, "it is safe now: the goblins and wolves are killed and those that fled are being hunted even as we speak. Come, for these great leaders wish to speak with you!"

What would they do if I did not come? They would probably search for me, and then they might not react as well as they might if I came forward myself. I took in a deep breath, which was heard by the Elvenking, for he turned his gaze in my direction, and then I straightened my shoulders and stepped out from behind the pile of gold. I was still hidden partially in the shadow, and they could not fully see my form, but my skin glowed and caused the jewellery I wore to shimmer. I heard Bard gasp while Gandalf, Dain, and the Elvenking merely sharpened their gazes. I watched them inspect me, and only came forward at Balin's beckoning.

"Where's Bilbo?" I asked immediately, wondering why he was not here. I had thought my hobbit friend would come retrieve me; it was quite unlike the kind fellow to abandon a friend when it was not necessary or for some greater purpose (like peace).

Pain and regret flashed in Gandalf and Balin's eyes, and Balin lowered his slightly as he quietly informed me, "We have not found him yet."

I clenched my teeth together, telling myself that he would soon be found and be no worse for wear aside from being an icicle and having a nasty headache, but it was hard to believe when these five stood before me in the halls of the Lonely Mountain. Tolkien had never written about this, as the events were completely unknown to Bilbo – not to mention I was _not _a part of that story. I had no real way of knowing if he really was just laying unconscious and invisible on some rock on the mountainside. I hoped so.

"Then there's no telling what happened," I forced myself to say, though it sounded slightly hoarse to my own ears.

Bilbo definitely couldn't die. He was such a wonderful person! Middle-earth wouldn't be the same without him: that was for certain. He had to be alive. He just had to.

"Fili is dead," Balin announced, "and so is Kili. Thorin lies dying even now."

I closed my eyes, partly to hide what knowledge they might find and partly because I was sad to see the two brothers go. They had been young and full of life, cheery and kind to me even though I was an elf within their mountain. I swallowed the tears that tried to fall, calling myself a coward for not having done something, or _said _something that might have helped. I would have been useless in battle, though, and what use would my words have been for them? They might have taken away hope, or given hope, or caused them to fight harder still, or weaker – or avoid fighting altogether, and then the battle might have been lost without the inspiration Thorin had brought to both men and elves in his last stand.

No, there hadn't been anything for me to do that wouldn't have altered the conclusion of the story.

"He wishes to speak with you," Balin finished.

"Then we will speak," I uttered. Then I pleaded, "Please tell me people are searching for Bilbo. He might have been overlooked, small and quiet as he is – when he wants to be."

Gandalf cracked a slight smile at that, and assured me, "There are people searching, Lady."

"Good," I sighed, returning his smile with a faint one of my own.

Then I turned away from them and made for the exit.

I paused at the doorway of the treasury, feeling heaviness in my chest as I realized that this would likely be the last time I would look upon Smaug's lair and gold, the place I had lived for an entire century. I turned back to look at the room, eyes flying over the gold and the walls and the ceiling and floor. I remembered my arrival, the terror I'd felt, and how I had somehow adapted to the constant presence of fear. I remembered eating and drinking while Smaug watched on or dined with me. I remembered talking to him, and sharing my world with him. I remembered our conversations and the way he'd lure me into divulging secrets I hadn't wanted him to know. I remembered his wrath and avarice and the way he used to look at me at times as though I were the most rare and exceptional treasure in his entire hoard.

There was much pain and fear in this great hall; but, there had also been moments where I'd felt almost safe and comfortable.

Smaug had brought me outside to experience the night, and he had adorned me with gold and silver and mithril and jewels. I suddenly felt terribly sad that he was gone, dead. He'd been the first creature to speak to me here, to introduce me to this world. I held no love for him, truly, but somehow an odd sort of fondness had grown in me, despite the burnings and the tail lashings and his claws.

I smiled an odd smile, wry and full of amusement and sadness and relief. I was feeling grief for the dragon, for the creature who had imprisoned me here, the one whose demise I had long awaited. He was dead and gone, but my memories of him would live forever.

I wondered if this was what having Stockholm syndrome was like.

I also feared the wide world now that it was open to me. The things I'd dreamed about and remembered were within my grasp, and I was faltering before it. I briefly wished that Master Smaug would fly into the room and laugh at the five who stood beside me. Smaug would kill them and eat them, and then he would ask me if I'd ever really believed he could be killed, or that I could ever be free of him. And I would say, "No, Master Smaug. I promised you I would not leave, and I have not. I knew you would return." Life would return to normal after that, and I'd smoke meat and do whatever my Master requested of me, be it singing or speaking or dancing or sitting atop a mound of gold for him to admire me upon.

I blinked and the vision was gone. I stood in a dragon-less hall, with a Man, an Elf, a Wizard, and two Dwarves beside me. And Thorin was waiting to speak with me.

I took one last look at what had been my home (and it _had _been, insane though it may seem) and left the treasury behind.

Up and up we climbed, through stairs and across halls, until at last we came to the Front Gate, whose doors were gaping open. There was a path before me, leading out of the Mountain, and I slowly placed a hesitant foot on it while the dwarf-guards watched on with bewilderment as one more person left the Mountain than had entered. I took one step forward and recalled my promise to Smaug that I would not take a single step outside of Erebor. I took another, and my promise remained unbroken. Bilbo was not at my side, so that vow too was kept.

Smaug was no longer alive, and I was taking the first two of many steps outside of the Lonely Mountain.


	3. The Free World

**Part Three: The Free World**

The River Running babbled beside me, sounding loud, strong, clear, and _beautiful_ to my ears. The sun beat down on me and warmed my skin, though I did not feel the chill of the early winter. I breathed in the fresh air and marveled at its taste. Never before had air smelt so wonderful to me – even if the air was full of the smell of bodies and blood and death the closer Balin led us toward the tents, it was still fresh. It hadn't dropped deep into the mountain's halls, coming out stale and old and reeking of dragon. This was _new _air, and it was wonderful.

Balin brought me towards Thorin's tent while Gandalf went away into another, and Bard, Dain, and the Elvenking seemed to vanish. "Hail! Thorin," Balin said.

The dwarf pulled the flap back and motioned me inside, and I hesitantly walked forward. The flaps closed behind me and I was left alone with Thorin, King under the Mountain – the King who would soon be dead. I wet my suddenly dry lips as Thorin looked at me, seemingly for the first time. The dragon-sickness was entirely gone, and not a speck of that mad greed sat in his eyes. I was looking at the dwarf as he should have been – as he _would _have been, had we met in different circumstances.

Though I suppose apology wouldn't be written so clearly on his face if we had met in another time and place.

"It is few who have heard such words from Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror," he began, "but I would not part this world with you having known but a mad King driven by gold-lust. Thus I speak the words that few have heard: I apologize, and I wish to ask forgiveness for my treatment of you within the Halls of my forefathers.

"Though your freedom is not in question, I would have it known that you are not part of the dragon's hoard to be taken or given at will. Were Fili alive, he would have wished the same. He argued long with me that you could not be counted as part of the gold, but in my madness I saw only a treasure the dragon Smaug had long coveted. That is not so, for you are an elf and you are free.

"I can do nothing to remove the memory of your entrapment within Erebor, yet I bid you keep the tokens you wear and to remember my Halls with kindness."

"There's nothing to forgive," I told him. "I was aware that you suffered from dragon-sickness, and I knew that your actions were not those you would take had you been in good health. But if my forgiveness is what you seek before you depart the circles of this world, then you have it. I give it freely and gladly."

He smiled a smile full of relief and bitter sweetness. "I thank you, Princess Carmen, for your kind words, but most especially for your forgiveness. Farewell!"

"Farewell," I echoed.

Then I looked upon the King under the Mountain one last time and gave him a final smile before I quietly left his tent.

* * *

When I came out, I nearly ran right into the Elvenking, Balin, and Dain. I blinked at them and then schooled my face to hide the annoyance I felt at their having eavesdropped on the entire conversation. "Yes?" I prodded when none of them spoke.

"The elf says he has space enough to house you until he returns to his wood," Balin told me, looking at me, for once, kindly.

The Elvenking looked annoyed at Balin's bland speech, but he made to ignore it (except for the brief twitch of his right eyebrow, which gave away his annoyance) and said graciously, "I have heard it said that the dragon laid waste to your home long ago; therefore, I open mine to you for howsoever long you choose to dwell therein."

Descriptions of Mirkwood flew through my head. I recalled Tolkien's words and Bilbo's speech, and the talk of the dwarves who spoke to me. Mirkwood was not a pleasant place, and while the Elvenking's halls and lands were safe, it would really be trading one prison for another. I wouldn't be able to walk around the forest at my leisure – I'd need to bring a guard with me, if I did not learn the art of war myself – and, the thing that really convinced me not to accept the Elvenking's offer, Mirkwood was _dark_. The sun did not shine through the trees like it openly lit up the hidden valley of Rivendell. I'd be living in another cave, and though this one would let in more natural light, it would still not be open to the sky.

Bilbo was not back yet, however, and I worried that he might not come back at all. If he didn't, then I had no one to journey with to Rivendell because there was no one I knew that would be heading in that direction. Hence I told the Elvenking, "I will consider it, and I thank you for the generous offer."

He nodded and made an effort not to appear disappointed, which bothered me. Why should he feel disappointed? It wasn't as though he knew me. He barely knew my name, let alone anything else! He thought I was some princess, when really I was just a normal person – well, as normal as one could be when one had been imprisoned by a dragon for decades.

I wondered why people actually believed me to be a princess. The Elvenking especially ought to know that there were no other elf-kingdoms in Middle-earth – and Gandalf should certainly know so! The Dwarves and Men I could understand, since elves were pretty secluded from my understanding of it, but the Elvenking himself should have no such lack of knowledge. And I wasn't even sure when or how I should break the news to them. How, exactly, does one go about telling people one's not really royalty?

* * *

Bilbo was found soon after, right as Gandalf stepped out of his tent and began to make his way toward me with a peculiar expression on his face. His attention turned to Bilbo, and he greeted the hobbit joyfully before he ushered him over to Thorin's tent ere I could even say hello. I thought about eavesdropping for a second, but Gandalf appeared at my side and requested an audience the moment the tent flap went down. He led me into the tent he'd recently exited and motioned for me to have a seat while he poured two goblets of what looked like wine.

"I don't drink," I protested.

He raised surprised brows and repeated, "You don't drink?"

"Not alcohol," I elaborated. "I don't like the taste – not wine or beer or ale, or what have you."

"An Elf that doesn't drink wine," he murmured to himself.

He sat down across from me and drank from his cup, eyeing me and then the goblet of wine he'd poured for me. I didn't want to drink it – I'd had enough water already that day to last me a good long while – but at the same time I wanted Gandalf to stop giving me that expectant look. Hesitantly, I reached out for the cup and lightly grasped it. It was well-made, a fine craft of carven silver, clearly belonging to some elf or other by the picture depicted on it: a beautiful woodland glade was fashioned on the sides, and the silver was so bright and smooth that the colours of the materials inside the tent were reflected in it. It almost made the scene look like a painting.

I slowly lifted it, bringing it closer to my mouth while the wizard watched on, until the rim touched my lips. I took in a small mouthful, noting the sweetness of the fruity wine, but also the bitterness of the alcohol. It was a heady mix, and tasted quite strong. My face betrayed no expression of distaste, despite my not liking the drink. I'd eaten charred meat, and the well water had sometimes tasted of mud or stones or fish. Something would have to be _really _wretched for me to grimace or do a spit-take.

The cup was placed back on the table in front of me, missing no more than the negligible amount that I'd sipped. "I do not like wine," I reiterated.

He nodded as if I'd just confirmed something, and then he bent forward, over and across the table, to peer closely at my face – at my nose. His eyes narrowed as he examined it, and I realized that he wasn't staring at my _nose_, but rather at what pierced it. He hummed a bit in thought, and the grip he held on his staff changed slightly as he pointed it more toward me than the ceiling.

I felt a strange sort of current wash over me, something a bit like static electricity but what must have been magic of some sort. Smaug had oftentimes made my hair stand on end, so I was familiar with the feeling of magic, but wizard-magic is different than dragon-magic, and Gandalf's felt much more soothing, like a summer breeze.

"There is a faint trace of magic in the mithril on your nose – a curious adornment, I must say," Gandalf said.

"What kind of magic?" I wondered.

Was it summoning magic, or travelling magic? Was it elvish or draconic? Maybe it was some sort of key that had once opened the door to my world – and could do so again. If I had any hopes of returning, it laid with Gandalf.

"I could not clearly say," he admitted. "It is very faint, at least several decades old."

"A century," I corrected. "And now, I suppose, would be an excellent time for me to tell you that I am not originally of this world. I came here a little over a century ago, though that's by Smaug's reckoning of the years, not my own. I don't know how it happened, or why, but there you have it."

"Hmm," he mused.

He raised a hand and brought a single finger forward to poke at the stud in my nose. _Crack!_ A spark lit up beneath his finger, and Gandalf swiftly pulled his hand away, waving it slightly with a chagrined look on his face. He frowned at it, and then nodded as though that flash had told him something.

"What is it?" I asked. "Some kind of doorway between worlds? Could you open it and send me through? Only, I don't think I'd want to return if a hundred years has passed on Earth, too, because none of my friends or family would be alive."

"I cannot say how much swifter or slower time passes in your world, as you call it," he told me, slowly. "I can only say this: that none here in Middle-earth have the power to open such a gateway. Smaug was in the Lonely Mountain for over seventy years when you arrived, if you have indeed been here for a century, and that is no small amount of magical residue any device could absorb."

"Smaug said it was a jewel wrought by elves of Elder Days, in the Age of the Two Trees," I said. "Do you think someone might have something similar? Then I could go somewhere with a high concentration of magic and let the gem absorb it for however long it takes, and we might use that power to send me back."

Gandalf shook his head and disagreed, "No, relics of the Age of the Two Trees are scarce and highly treasured. Should you find one, it is likely that the owner would not allow you to use and, consequently, destroy the object. Furthermore, the more time that passes here, the less likely it would be for you to return to the time of your leaving. Without knowing for certain how much time has passed, it would be foolish indeed to return you from whence you came."

"Oh," I sounded, slightly disappointed but not at all surprised.

It was as I'd suspected. Middle-earth was, well, home now. My friends and family were beyond me; I had no one but myself – and maybe Bilbo, the dear. He was kind, and I quite liked him. He was my first friend in Middle-earth, if he'd let me call him such.

"Thranduil has offered to let you stay in Mirkwood," Gandalf reminded me. "You could easily make a new home there."

"No," I countered. "It was awfully nice of him to offer, but I don't think I'd like to be beneath those trees. Bilbo has told me a bit about Rivendell and it sounds – open. To the sky, I mean. I think I'd like that better."

A mischievous smile flitted across the old wizard's face, as he commented, "Thranduil will be disappointed."

"I'm sure," I voiced suspiciously. "Tell me: what is the true reason he wishes for me to return with him? I am certain there is more to it than simple generosity."

"His youngest sons have not yet married and seem to hold no affection for the maidens of their kingdom," Gandalf shared. "I believe the Elvenking was rather hoping one of them might be interested in a foreign princess."

"Gandalf," I laughed, "I'm afraid they'd be very disappointed: I'm not a princess at all! Smaug just liked to call me that. He thought it was amusing to pretend the old fairy-stories were true."

"Perhaps you are not the daughter of a King, but you were named Princess by Smaug."

"I don't understand," I admitted, no longer laughing. "I could call you an Elf or a Hobbit, but that wouldn't make it so."

"You are not a dragon," Gandalf pointed out. "Smaug named you Princess, and Princess you have become. A dragon's voice holds powerful magic, as you are no doubt aware, and his words wind spells about those who listen. You have listened long, Carmen. When Bilbo called you Princess, you did not deny it. When the dwarves or the Elvenking called you Princess, you replied."

"I'm used to it, that's all," I protested. "Call someone something long enough and they'll answer to it."

"Did you not wonder why Thranduil did not object to your status when he has never before heard of an elven princess by the name of Carmen?"

I had. I'd thought it strange that everyone had accepted the whole 'princess' business without any proof (except for Thorin). Bilbo had heard Smaug call me Princess, and he had told the dwarves and Gandalf that the dragon had kidnapped a princess, like in folktales. And whilst the dwarves had been slightly disbelieving, the fact that neither Gandalf nor the other elves had questioned me meant, in their minds, that it must be true.

"If it's a spell," I began haltingly, "could you break it?"

"I cannot," he claimed.

"Well," I announced suddenly, "just because Smaug called me Princess and everybody seems to think I am one doesn't mean I have to live or act like one. Bilbo's offered to bring me along with him when he heads home, and I'll accompany him until Rivendell. Then I think I might ask Lord Elrond if I could work there. Something low-key, I think, maybe a gardener."

"A _gardener_?" Gandalf sputtered.

I rolled my eyes and huffed, "Yes, a gardener. I'd like it, since I'd be outside a lot."

"A princess cannot be a _gardener_," he rejected. "Perhaps Lord Elrond will let you maintain the order of the gardens."

"I'd rather dig in dirt," I argued. "I haven't buried my hands in it in _forever_! It'd be nice to be around growing things instead of rocks."

Gandalf gave me an irritated glance, as though I'd thrown his advice away in favour of something lesser or stupid, but I ignored him and kept thinking about how nice it would be to be a gardener. I'd blurted out the first idea that came to mind, but it wasn't a half-bad one now that I thought about it. I could plant flowers and prune bushes, water plants and watch them grow. It _would _be awfully nice.

I decided then and there that I'd ask Lord Elrond to be a gardener in his valley. That way I'd earn my keep and stay busy. I could also visit Bilbo some time, since the Shire sounded like a marvelous place to see. He'd probably get a kick out of the shock I'd give his relatives. The Sackville-Baggins would be _very _disapproving of entertaining a visiting elf friend.

* * *

I spent the night beside Bilbo, much to the elves' and Gandalf's chagrin. He was really my only friend here, the only one I knew more about than the now-deceased Smaug, and so I latched on to him. The hobbit didn't seem to mind overly-much; in fact, I suspect he was rather flattered by my deference to him. It didn't matter one little iota to me that the Elvenking had hoped I would spend more time with the Mirkwood elves – he had designs for me, and likely I would have heard an awful lot (bragged) about his youngest sons. I had only just escaped Smaug, and I wasn't looking for anything else to tie me down.

I was free, and free to me meant being unburdened by things like marriage and courting. Free to me meant I could wander around Middle-earth if I so desired it, which I did, even if only a little.

Set on travelling to Rivendell with Bilbo, none could convince me otherwise. My mind was made up, and no argument could sway me. Gandalf did not try after that first conversation, for which I was glad, but I noticed a great deal many elves in my vicinity chatting about their home – in the _Common Tongue_. Elves preferred their own languages, so their speaking Westron was about as obvious as a rampaging Smaug: the Elvenking thought to entice me back to his home, and his subjects were of like mind, hoping that their princes might find a wife and happiness in me.

I avoided them when I could, and when I could not, I spoke briefly and carefully as though conversing with Smaug.

* * *

On my second day beneath the sky (the beautiful sky I could not nearly get enough of), I met Beorn.

Gandalf came toward me, where I stood alone with an upturned face toward the sky. He was leading an extremely tall Man – taller even than Thranduil, who stood less than half a foot beneath seven feet – and the Man had dark hair, an extremely large beard of the same black-brown, and dark eyes. His skin was weather-worn and golden, and it only added to the imposing sight he made. Being that he was taller than any human I'd ever seen, I began to have an inkling as to who this was.

"This is Princess Carmen," Gandalf introduced. "Princess Carmen, this is Beorn."

"It's nice to meet you," I offered, finding that my presumption was correct: this was the skin-changer.

"Yes, yes," Gandalf rushed. "She will be travelling with Bilbo and me to Rivendell."

"And to the west of the forest with me, no doubt," Beorn muttered at the wizard.

"I had thought that since we were all going in the same direction..." Gandalf trailed off expectantly. Then he blithely added, "She was held prisoner by Smaug and no doubt has many tales to tell. I would like to hear some, at least, of what she did in her century in Erebor."

I recalled the sly way Gandalf had convinced the skin-changer to host thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit, and I saw immediately that he hoped the same tactic would work twice. I was unsure if it would, because my 'adventure' was not quite the average adventure: I had had no physical journey to go on, only a mental one. A psychological thriller, no doubt, I thought sarcastically. Somehow I would have to entertain Beorn enough to get him to agree to keep my company, and it annoyed me that Gandalf had set this up without my knowledge.

Then I saw that the cunning in the wizard's eyes was not meant for the skin-changer alone, but for _me _as well. He, unlike Thranduil, had some qualm with my having spent so long with a dragon. Perhaps he thought that my time there had changed me, had altered my mind until I was no better than a beast myself – and with my appalling lack of Middle-earth approved manners, it might well be so. The wizard, however, knew more of my tale than I was willing to tell anyone else. I did not wish for people to know that I had come from another world (it was bad enough they all thought me to be a princess), and thus I had to either lie or hide.

I was unused to lying, however. I could spin my words so that I'd tell the truth without the listener realizing quite what it was I'd said (promising not to take a step out of the Lonely Mountain, for instance), but I had trouble outright lying. Lying had brought me nothing more than pain, and even the thought of it made me cringe in fear.

No, I wouldn't be lying any time soon.

"I arrived directly on top on the dragon's hoard in a shower of gold sparks..." I commenced weaving my tale, keeping certain things hidden (the nudity, the otherworldliness, the conversations on torturing and eating humanoid creatures that were _not _goblins) while expounding on others (witty exchanges, manipulating the dragon to allow me certain comforts like cooking my own food and drinking well-water, and especially the knowledge that the dragon could not stay forever).

"How could you know he would be slain?" Beorn asked, staring at me through a slightly narrowed gaze.

So far he'd been enjoying the story, though he admitted it was quite odd and unlike any he'd heard before, but when I let slip that I only had to wait until someone came to rouse the dragon, he (and Gandalf) became suspicious.

"I could not know for certain," I admitted honestly. "I could only hope that someone would come with designs to slay the dragon and take the hoard. If I could not trust in the _courage_ of Man, Elf, or Dwarf, then I could trust in their greed."

"That is not a nice thing to say," Gandalf chided.

"And yet it is true," Beorn acknowledged. "They take without thought, and want more than they need."

I nodded in agreement, thankful that the skin-changer had agreed with me on this and had not gotten offended, like Gandalf appeared to be, on behalf of the races I'd insulted.

"What of hobbits?" the wizard queried.

I frowned, thinking back on my time with Bilbo and on the words I'd read about hobbits so long ago. Smaug knew nothing of them, so all I had to go on was the information in _The Hobbit_ and my interactions with Bilbo Baggins himself. "Hobbits," I speculated, "are more interested in peace and comfort, and their only greed is for food and for home, if I understand Bilbo correctly."

"You do," Gandalf vouched. "Though I wonder how it is you have concluded such a thing when you have known Bilbo for no longer than a month."

"Do you think me daft?" I drawled. "Even had Bilbo not stolen the Arkenstone to prevent any bloodshed, and even if he had not chosen to forgo his share of the treasure for the sake of his friends, it is still obvious that he is kind in nature – and, from the way he speaks of his home, it is _blatantly_ obvious that his fellow hobbits are of like mind."

"Of course," the wizard back-tracked, "it just surprised me that you were able to determine that in so short a time."

"Because you believe I am dull and stupid," I droned, feeling the need to draw out his discomfort.

It was amusing to see him squirm, worrying that he had greatly offended me... I had the sudden epiphany that I had not been entirely unaffected by Smaug as I'd previously thought. The dragon had taken much liking in doing this sort of teasing with me, and here I was doing the same to Gandalf. Maybe I was being nicer about it, but I was still doing it.

"I'm only joking," I interjected before he could start rambling.

Despite having teased him like Smaug had teased me, I thought, 'So what?' It hadn't been cruelly done, and it was a teasing I'd seen many people do in San Francisco. I gave Gandalf a small, mischievous smile to show that I meant nothing bad by it, and he returned it after a moment.

Beorn laughed gaily and clapped Gandalf on the back, making the wizard stumble forward a bit under the heavy weight of his hand. "Even a wizard can be fooled by the wiles of a woman," the great bear of a man chortled.

I tried not to be offended by that, because it was not entirely false. I was a woman, and I was slightly devious in my speech. The fact that Beorn used the word 'wiles' did not sit well with me, but it was not as though I'd used the typical 'womanly wiles' (i.e. my body), and it was not as though I ever planned on doing so.

When Beorn finished laughing at the disgruntled wizard, he had me continue my tale. I ended it not long after, and he declared that it was a good story, though not nearly as exciting as he'd have preferred, and that he would not mind travelling with me. I sighed in relief at this, and Gandalf seemed to do the same. He now had a much better idea of how I'd lived the past century, and it looked as though he no longer held much suspicion of me. He knew I could weave words to deceive the listener, but he also knew that I tended to not directly lie.

Thus he asked, "You do not have any ill intentions or designs concerning Lord Elrond and the inhabitants of his valley? Nor concerning Bilbo or any other hobbit?"

And I was able to honestly answer, "I mean no harm to anyone: Elf, Man, Dwarf, or Hobbit."

"And your plans?" he pressed. "What do you mean to do with your time?"

I offered him an amused half-smile and said, "I already told you: I'd like to be a gardener."

He was unimpressed, and insisted, "What else?"

"Well," I considered, "I thought that after I'd settled down in Rivendell – should Lord Elrond allow it, that is – I might one day visit Bilbo in the Shire and see Bag End. It sounds like a lovely place, and I wish to travel a bit to see more of Middle-earth. The pleasant places, mind you. It'd be nice to understand a bit more of this world."

He nodded, accepting that answer as truth and realizing that I really had no idea what to do with myself outside of that vague plan.

* * *

On my third day outside the Mountain, the funeral for Thorin was held.

Surprisingly I received an invite, and so I descended into the Lonely Mountain once more, with Bilbo and the Elvenking at my sides. The Elvenking offered me his arm before we went in, but when I looked at it as though I had no idea what in Arda to do with it, he gently guided my arm. Our forearms were touching, mine set slightly beneath his, and my other hand rested above his wrist. We were not linked at the arms like I might have expected; indeed, my hand and arm were not looped through his at all. It was... elegant, I suppose would be the word for it, or elvish (which is practically synonymous).

We walked into the depths of the Mountain, and my hand tightened on Thranduil's wrist the further down we got. The Elvenking placed his other hand over mine and gave it a comforting squeeze and I anchored myself to the moment through his touch, a proof that Smaug was still gone and the people around me were actually there.

Thorin was laid to rest, and Bard placed the Arkenstone on the breast of the dead King. Then Thranduil pulled away from me and withdrew an elven sword from his belt. The Elvenking laid the sword, Orcrist, on Thorin's tomb. Bilbo told me, in an aside, that it was the sword Thorin had gotten in the Troll-hoard, which the Elvenking had taken from Thorin when he'd been captured by the elves of Mirkwood. I looked at it with wonder, as it was both a beautiful, well-crafted weapon and a prop in the story I had read so long ago.

Soon Thranduil returned to my side and offered me his arm once more, to which I replied by properly placing mine beneath his and laying my palm on his forearm. We left the deep cavern and went up into the hoard, where Dain told Bard he would honour the agreement made by Thorin and gave him a fourteenth share of the treasure. Many dwarves came to take it out, and I watched on as my old home had its – furniture removed. The Elvenking never strayed from my side, comforting me with his steadfastness. Being within the Mountain again was difficult, but with his strong presence and Bilbo's familiar one, I was able to withstand it.

And I was present when Bard declared that all of the emeralds of Girion would go to Thranduil. I felt the Elvenking stiffen slightly in surprise, but he gave no other outward reaction than that as he thanked Bard for his kingly gift. I also watched as Bilbo rejected being 'rewarded most richly of all'. The hobbit took two small chests (one filled with silver, the other with gold) and said that it was plenty. He was not greedy, to be sure, but even a hobbit could see that a small amount of treasure would make life more comfortable – and that it would be rude to refuse Bard when the man looked so earnest.

Bilbo said his goodbyes to the dwarves he had come to know so well on their long journey, and I offered my own when he was finished. The dwarves returned my farewell as was polite, except for Bofur and Bombur who patted me on the back (much to the Elvenking's distaste). After that we walked out of the Mountain for the last time and headed back to the elves' camp to prepare for our long journey.

Gandalf was given provisions enough for himself, Bilbo, Beorn, and me, and the Elvenking pulled me aside to outfit me with slipper-like shoes and elven travel clothes. I dressed myself in his tent and came out looking much more like a proper elf, with a long knee-length green tunic, brown leggings, a green cloak, and green shoes. The material was soft and comfortable, and the clothes and slippers fit me surprisingly well. The elves' height ranged between 5'6 and 6'4 (Thranduil and his eldest son were the exception, at 6'7 and 6'6 respectively), therefore it was easy to find clothes in my size from one of the shorter elves.

When I came out of the tent and went to return Bilbo's clothes to him, he looked at me in surprise. "You look much different in that," he exclaimed.

"Oh, how so?" I wondered curiously.

"You seem... grander, somehow," he tried to explain.

"Your trousers were rather short on me," I pointed out. "I could just seem taller now that I'm in clothes that fit."

"No, no," he protested, "I do not mean that you look _bigger_, I mean that you look more elf-like, or princess-like."

"Hmm," I mused. "Perhaps I should put your clothes back on, then."

"I did not say it was a bad thing," Bilbo objected.

"Perhaps not, but looking like a princess is asking for trouble on a journey. I've hidden all my jewellery, but if I look like a princess, someone might assume I carry treasure with me regardless..."

"I do not think it matters," Gandalf interrupted.

"I don't want to bring any trouble," I stated. "It might be prudent for me to wear Bilbo's clothes until we are somewhere safer."

"Prudent it might be, but improper as well," the wizard asserted. "It was acceptable for you to wear Bilbo's clothes when you had no other option, but now that you have an alternative it would not be right for you to continue wearing the attire of a hobbit."

One look at Gandalf confirmed that he would be stubborn about this, so I decided not to argue with him. The elven clothes were much more comfortable, anyway. I returned the clothes to Bilbo, and then it was time to rest for the night, since we would set out in the morning. I slept a few hours, as it was all I needed, and spent the rest of the time memorizing the way the Lonely Mountain looked beneath the moonlight. This would probably be the last time I would see it, and even though my time there hadn't been the best, I didn't want to forget it.

* * *

In the morning the elves set out on their horses, and Gandalf and I rode behind the Elvenking on horses of our own while Bilbo sat upon a pony. Beorn walked beside us, and his long legs ensured he did not fall behind. The skin-changer sang loudly and merrily along the way, and Bilbo and Gandalf joined him at times, when they knew the tune or felt up to it. I remained silent for the most part, except for when someone spoke to me.

Throughout the journey Thranduil tried to convince Gandalf, Bilbo, and me to come to Mirkwood and stay a while in his palace, but Bilbo's mind was set on home, and Gandalf would not leave his friend. I, too, was set on the course the book said my three companions would take, so I declined as well. Thranduil was greatly disappointed, but he understood the reasoning Bilbo and Gandalf gave – as for me, I said I did not wish to part with Bilbo quite yet and the Elvenking seemed to accept that.

We bade farewell at the edge of the Wood, and I smothered a smile when Bilbo gave the Elvenking a token for his stay in Mirkwood – and for all the food he stole while he was slinking about beneath the cover of his magic ring. The Elvenking thought it funny, but he also appreciated the fact that Bilbo wished to make up for the wrong he did, and he named Bilbo Elf-friend. I got the impression that such a title was important, but knew not why it was so. I swore to myself that I would learn more about Elves and their ways, not in the least because I was one of them.

After our farewells Gandalf, Bilbo, Beorn, and I began our trek northward. With my hair braided tightly and wound loosely around my neck like a scarf, moving was made easier. It was also easier to protect myself when we came upon a pack of wandering, hungry wolves, and when we ran into a few hiding goblins. I did not have to do any fighting at all, thankfully, but I still tightly held the dagger given to me by Gandalf. Most of the wolves and goblins had been defeated at the Battle of Five Armies, so our path was relatively safe and our enemies few when we stumbled upon them.

By mid-winter we arrived at Beorn's home and rested there until spring, when large and beautiful flowers began to bloom. We were sad to leave the comfort of the skin-changer's home, but we were also eager to finish our journey – and especially the climb across the Misty Mountains. We found a few more goblins there, but not so many as to truly threaten us. For the most part we could simply pass them by on our horses and pony and they were none the wiser – or they saw Gandalf's and Bilbo's swords and decided that fighting us would be folly. I knew not and I cared not.

We came at last upon a path in the mountains and followed it. When we reached the very peak, the highest point on our path, we halted and turned back to view the way we had come. I saw Mirkwood spread out in the distance, fresh leaves beginning to sprout from dark trees, and beyond the eaves of the Wood-elves, I saw the Lonely Mountain. It was small and so very far away, and in my heart I felt sadness and relief.

Bilbo echoed that sentiment: "So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending! I wish now only to be in my own arm-chair!"

"And I wish for a comfortable bed and a garden to tend to," I said wistfully, sounding more like a Hobbit than an Elf even to my own ears.

"You will have that and more, the both of you," Gandalf told us.


	4. Rivendell

**Part Four: Rivendell**

Going down the Misty Mountains was both easier and harder, and soon enough we came to flat lands covered in grass and trees. There were bushes and flowers, all fully alive on the first of May as we made our way down into the valley of the Last Homely House. It was evening as we rode down the path, and in the distance I could hear the river running and the elves singing. Eventually Bilbo could hear them too, and we listened to their little 'Tra-la-la-lally' about the dragon being defeated, Thorin dying, and how much better nature was compared to metals and gems taken from the earth. I kind of agreed with them there, having lived for a century in a dragon's hoard, but I thought the song a bit silly and a bit – well, arrogant. It implied that Elves knew better, that the things they valued were truly worth treasuring compared to the lesser things mortals thought rich.

Still, I did not resent them for it. Bilbo had warned me that the elves of Rivendell were silly creatures prone to making fun of others – but, he said, it was all in good fun and they didn't mean any harm by it. So when they added a few verses about a queer princess being rescued, I was not surprised or insulted. I just supposed that I was queer to them, and that was that.

The elves seemed to burst out of the trees when their song was finished, and they greeted us three travellers and led us over the river and into the valley. None disguised their interest in the tale of Bilbo and Gandalf's journey, or in my own adventure. They brought us into the house of Elrond, where the Lord of Rivendell greeted the two males as friends and me as some sort of dignitary – or princess, I suppose, as he used the title in his welcome.

We sat down to sup, and after that we were led into the Hall of Fire where many elves listened to Gandalf weave his tale. He spoke long about Bilbo's journey, and about his own travels – he had, along with the White Council, driven the Necromancer out of Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, a tale I was most interested in hearing as it did not appear anywhere in _The Hobbit_ except in passing mention. Then, when the wizard was finished with that, and after Bilbo had fallen asleep and was taken to bed like a child, Gandalf turned to my own tale. Without my permission he shared that I had come from another world, and that I had not always been an elf or a princess, though I'd been transformed into both, one by some strange circumstance and the other by the power of Smaug.

"I'm really not a princess," I tried to object. "I've got no kingdom of my own, and in no way desire it. I – if you'll let me, Lord Elrond – would like nothing more than to live a quiet life in Rivendell as a gardener."

There was laughter at this, and Gandalf gave me an 'I-told-you-so' look when the elves thought my plan hilarious.

"A gardener?" Lord Elrond wondered with eyes twinkling like stars.

"Yes," I insisted. "I don't know much about it, but then again I don't know much about anything here. I'd like to work with the earth and with plants, and nothing you can say will deter me from this. If you do not have need for a gardener, then I will just have to look elsewhere. I have no desire to get into politics or the like as you might expect of me: a simple life is the life I choose."

Then the lord's amusement left him and he looked at me with complete seriousness, judging me and my request with solemnity. "It is most unusual," he admitted at last, "but I see that you believe this will make you happy. It shall be so, though I advise you to spend the rest of your time learning our language, history, and customs."

"I find that agreeable," I accepted.

He nodded, and that was that. I was quite pleased to have my request accepted so easily, and pleased that Lord Elrond insisted on my learning the language, history, and customs of my new people. It was exactly what I wanted: a simple life and the knowledge needed to live peaceably in my new home.

* * *

Bilbo rested in Rivendell for a week only, and I spent much of that time at his side. I would miss my friend when he left, but I promised that in a few years, after I settled down and learned enough to acclimatize myself to the place, I would take a vacation and head to the Shire for a visit – and I would stop by at four for tea. The hobbit wandered around the gardens, and the two of us tried to determine which one Elrond would let me work in. It was great fun, and Bilbo even offered a few gardening tips.

The rest of his week, when he was not wandering around the Last Homely House, was spent in the library looking at maps and reading a few books. He began bettering his Elvish in earnest, and he helped me out as I began to learn Sindarin. He and the elves laughed at my first attempts, and especially at my need to slowly pronounce each new word repeatedly to get it right, but it was all done amicably so I did not begrudge them their fun.

At last, as the end of the week drew nigh, Bilbo gifted Elrond with a small amount of silver and gold, all that the lord would accept, and bade him farewell.

"I'll miss you," I said as I hugged my friend goodbye and tried not to cry.

"You'll visit," Bilbo returned.

"In a few years," I agreed. "By then I might be entirely changed!"

"You will know how to properly speak Elvish," he teased lightly, "and then you may help me with my own Sindarin."

We laughed and released each other, and I waved to the hobbit and the wizard as they left the valley. I saw Bilbo turn back once more ere he disappeared beyond the river, and he waved back at me before he was gone.

The rest of that day I spent in a little garden near the library, where Bilbo had often taken books to read while I lounged in the open air. Lord Elrond found me there before supper, and he sat beside me on the bench. Silently we watched as birds and bees flittered about, and even a squirrel came to visit. The garden was fairly small, but it was well-tended and little-visited despite being so near the library.

"Now that your friend has gone," Lord Elrond began, "I deem it time to begin your lessons."

"And gardening?" I questioned hopefully.

He smiled and nodded, "I have found someone willing to teach you to care for plants, and you will join her in tending the gardens in the morning. She will teach you more than just the proper way to maintain a garden, however: you will learn to identify the plants found in Arda, and the purposes for which they may be used."

"Like which ones to avoid, which ones can be eaten, and which ones make a great tea?"

"That and which plants may be used to heal," he elaborated. "Most of us know such things, as they are important. You need not become a healer if you do not wish it, but knowing how to tend to injuries and illnesses would be an asset if you do indeed wish to visit Bilbo in the Shire."

"Alright," I accepted. It sounded fair enough.

"You will also, of course, continue learning Sindarin. In time you may learn Quenya as well, though it is a language few bother learning in this Age. History and culture lessons will be held after the midday meal, and Lord Erestor has agreed to tutor you in that. As for the evening: Lord Glorfindel will teach you archery and swordplay."

"Wait," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Why should your chief councillor and the head of your guard bother teaching me? And why need I learn to fight? Are you expecting some sort of attack? I thought Rivendell was safe."

"It is," he answered. "However, ellith are taught to fight alongside ellyn in their youth – it is tradition that they learn to protect themselves, though not many choose to pursue a military career."

"And the reason you have two very important ellyn teaching me?" I pressed, having noticed that he avoided answering that part of the question. When the elf tried to avoid responding once more, I crossed my arms and theorized, "You do not trust me. I suppose that Lords Erestor and Glorfindel have either offered to keep an eye on me or have been ordered by you to do so."

Lord Elrond did not say anything to that, and merely continued to look at me.

"What better elves to watch me than two you know you can trust implicitly to make correct decisions? I do not doubt that they are accustomed to observing foreigners for ill intentions – and hidden behind their roles as councillor and seneschal, likely none fully realize that they both carry weapons with them at all times and are prepared to use them should you or anyone in your home be threatened. They are the perfect teachers for one you do not yet trust but do not wish to insult by placing under guard," I concluded.

Lord Elrond gave a brief nod, and his face was entirely expressionless. The fact that I had pointed this out could be argued to both add to my trustworthiness and detract from it – I might be trying to lull him into a sense of false security, or I might be honest by letting him know that I was aware of the main purpose of having Lords Erestor and Glorfindel assigned to me.

"I understand it," I volunteered warily, "but that doesn't mean I like it. Yet I will not hold it against you as you are merely doing what you must to ensure the safety of all those who live here."

He accepted the information for what it was: an olive branch and a warning. I offered peace by telling him that I accepted what he had ordered, but I also cautioned him that I would be observing his citizens while they examined me. Just because his valley was a peaceful realm did not mean that I trusted him implicitly. Lord Elrond seemed to be a good leader, and I trusted him in that I knew his intentions – I would trust Lords Erestor and Glorfindel in the same manner, and likely the gardener – but the others, whose intentions I could not know without speaking to, I would not let down my guard around.

Thus began my lessons and life as a citizen of Rivendell.

* * *

Over the next few months I was watched like a hawk, though I noticed that the elves were very kind about the whole thing. Lord Erestor was friendly and apparently enjoyed teaching someone so young again – he said he hadn't done so since Lady Arwen was an elfling – and Lord Glorfindel, I think, enjoyed seeing my incompetence. Many elves came to watch when he taught me, and most of them laughed and teased me as I failed time and time again. Try though I might to remember Bilbo's wise words about childish elves, it didn't stop me from being highly offended and feeling criticized and angry.

Lord Erestor was the first to see it.

"You hide it well, but I see that the others' teasing angers you," he brought up one afternoon.

"Yes," I sighed, not bothering to hide it since he was aware. "I am not used to it."

"Did not Smaug taunt you?" he wondered. "I would think the teasing of elves much kinder than the taunting of a dragon."

"It is much kinder," I allowed.

"Yet it angers you – more than Smaug angered you, I believe."

I did not reply to that because we both knew it was true. Smaug had taunted me and laughed at me, and most of the time it was not by singing silly songs about my failures or giggling as I yet again missed the mark on the target. Circumstances were different though: here I was honestly trying to improve myself, to learn things best I could, whereas in Erebor I'd only been trying to survive. It was hard to convince myself I could do better when there were so many people laughing at me.

"You doubt yourself," Lord Erestor finally deduced. "You do not believe that you can improve, and see their laughter as mocking."

"I know they do not mean to mock me," I weakly protested.

"Knowing something to be true does not mean your heart believes it."

I lowered my head and fiddled with my long hair, which had not been shortened despite the many times it was suggested I do so for convenience's sake. I knew that Lord Erestor was correct: I might mentally be aware that the elves were jesting in good fun and meant nothing bad by it, but their words and laughter still managed to hurt me. I took it too personally, I guess. It was just so hard not to liken their kidding around to bullying. Bullies always meant to make their victims feel bad though, and the elves did not. They always seemed to expect me to laugh along with them, to joke about my own incompetence. I was not nearly confident enough in my abilities to do so. Maybe they, who had lived longer than I and had had time to grow comfortable with themselves and their skills, could easily laugh when they did not succeed at something, but I could not. Despite being over a hundred and twenty-three years old, I still thought like a human. To elves, if at first you don't succeed, well, you've got an eternity to get better so it's no big deal. To me, if I could not succeed at something right away, I wanted to give up and find something else to do that I _was _actually good at.

Like gardening, which I loved. Learning to take care of plants and learning to identify them and what uses they had was great fun for me. I enjoyed digging around in the dirt and pruning flowers and bushes and trees. I adored wandering the garden paths as I watered and rid plants of dead petals and leaves and branches. I liked helping to heal whichever plant was sick.

When I gardened, I could forget about everything else. There were no Elves, no Dwarves, no Wizards, no Dragons or Goblins – not even Hobbits. When I gardened it was almost like being back in San Francisco. It was like the whole world fell away until the only thing left was nature, something familiar and soothing. Plants might be able to sing and speak to me now if I listened for it, but I fancied that their words had always been there – I just hadn't always been listening for them.

"You will get better," Lord Erestor assured me. "It will take time, but that is something we all have in abundance. Do not allow yourself to become discouraged."

I looked up at the elf, at the ellon who had been teaching me manners and greetings and the history of Middle-earth for the past few months, and, for the first time since Bilbo left, I saw a friend. Here was an elf who was mature and thoughtful, who did not laugh at me, and who encouraged me when I was down. Here was an elf I would gladly call friend.

I surprised Erestor by hugging him, and I ignored the way he stiffened at the sudden embrace. "Thank you," I said, pulling away to wipe the dampness from my eyes. "You are a wonderful person, and I would gladly call you friend."

"You may," he offered, blinking to get rid of his befuddlement.

"That makes it two friends I've made here," I murmured happily to myself.

I ignored the flash of pity I saw in his eyes, and then we returned to the events of the Second Age.

* * *

A few weeks later I pulled back on my bow and watched with a satisfied smile as my arrow hit the second ring near the centre. My aim was getting better, to the point where my arrows always struck between the third, second, and centre rings on the target. I was no expert by any means, but I was slowly improving and the elves who came to watch no longer laughed at my failures. Once I stopped being completely terrible (after my talk with Erestor I gained a second wind and resolved to do my best), the laughter and teasing stopped. No longer was there an audience during my lessons; now only a few stopped by to see my improvement and to comment on it.

It was as though the elves had taken joy in seeing someone begin something new, and now that I was getting used to it they no longer felt the need to pay so much attention to me. Kind of like how adults watch children begin to learn: laughing at the start when the child is unable to correctly copy his or her teacher. It's just not as interesting when the child starts improving.

I'd done similar things, I realized. Listening to someone first learn to speak English, failing to pronounce the words or getting the grammar wrong could be really entertaining, but I'd never meant anything bad by it, since the person learning it would eventually get rid of their accent and fix their grammar. It was like that with the elves, and it took me some time to see it. Of _course_ it'd be funny to see someone who'd never wielded a weapon in her life learn to fight. I'd probably looked quite silly to them, but they hadn't been judging me: they knew I would learn from my errors and get better eventually.

My relationship with Lord Glorfindel could only improve after that.

"I am pleased that you have finally let go of your frustration," he told me one day.

"Did _everyone_ know?" I winced.

"Erestor told me that you found it difficult to learn under scrutiny," he explained.

"You mean he told you that the laughing and joking hurt my pride," I corrected a bit sourly.

"Self-confidence," he corrected. "And yes, if that is how you wish to phrase it. You should not have expected to excel the moment you lifted a weapon."

"I didn't," I denied.

"You did," he countered. "Otherwise you would not have been angered by being teased for not doing well."

"I just... didn't think I'd be so horrible," I muttered.

He gave me a dry look and stated, "You expected to be decent, or at least to pick up a complex skill with ease. You are still young and have much to learn, thus it is good you learn this lesson now. All talents require time and practice, even those you may find you are naturally gifted in – like your gardening, for example. So long as you apply yourself, you will learn and improve. That is how I am skilled in more than weaponry and battle strategy: I can garden, heal, manage a household, weave my own cloth, and make my own clothes, among other things. Each took many seasons or years to learn, and not once did I succeed on my first attempts, or even my hundredth in some cases. You are not mortal, Princess Carmen. You have time to learn whatsoever you please, and it does not matter how long it takes you."

"I know," I mumbled, feeling awfully childish.

I had felt very adult in the presence of the dwarves, some of whom were near in age to me, and old in the presence of Men, who were all younger than I. Here among elves, however, I was young – and it showed. The longer I stayed with them, the more obvious it became that while I was fully grown, I was still _young_. The elves around me, and most especially Erestor but now Lord Glorfindel as well, tended to treat me a bit like a child. They offered me guidance and advice, all of which was wise and did nothing but help me grow as a person so long as I listened and followed it. It was insulting, and yet... and yet they _did _know better than I.

Lord Glorfindel placed a hand on my shoulder and concluded, "All that matters is that you learn. I am glad to see you doing so."

* * *

Not long after that I started getting better at swordplay, too. Connecting with Lord Glorfindel made it so that I could finally accept him as a mentor-figure. I stopped seeing him as someone who'd agreed to teach me just to keep an eye on me and started viewing him as someone who wanted to see me succeed in what he taught me. Erestor was a friend and I always listened to his advice with care, but Lord Glorfindel was a mentor only (for the most part) when it came to the practice of self-defence. I did not feel as close to Lord Glorfindel as I felt to Erestor, but that was fine with me. It was enough that he taught me and that he smiled when he saw me improve. They both watched me, yes, but they cared for me as well.

In time I became less weary of those around me, and by the time a year had gone by, I was starting to put my century with Smaug behind me. I'd never forget it, true, but that did not mean that I had to relive it all the time – I did not _have_ to be suspicious and calculating; I did not _have_ to watch my words and look for hidden messages in the speech of others. I slowly stopped watching the people around me like they might suddenly be taken by fury and strike out at me.

As I relaxed my guard, tension began to leave me. I never realized how difficult and strenuous it was to be so suspicious of people, to watch my back at all times, but when I finally stopped I was struck by how much more energy I had, by how much clearer my mind was and how much quicker my thoughts were.

I stopped mistrusting the elves of Rivendell when I finally realized that I would not be intentionally harmed while I lived in the Hidden Vale. Life would go on, and so too would I.

**FIN**

* * *

Alright, so some of you may feel that this ending was a bit anti-climatic, and you're absolutely right. It _is_, but it's also supposed to signify the beginning of something new, like all endings do. Carmen has been through a lot, and it's taken her a long time to even begin to let go of what's happened to her and to accept her new surroundings. Despite what has happened to her, however, she's survived - and survival means that you can either move on or linger perpetually in the past. She's decided to move on (even though it's taken over a year), which means the world is open to her and she can finally experience it.

Does that mean there will be more? I'm not sure, to be honest. I've thought of a few things, such as having her visit Bilbo and having her meet (but not participate in) the Fellowship - and, of course, there's the matter of romance. Yet I think of writing this and it seems... a bit forced, I suppose. Carmen is finally beginning to have a healthy frame of mind, she's likely to make some acquaintances and friends outside of Erestor, and she's about ready to just... live. So what I'm saying is: I like where I ended the story, in this vague sense of wellness where Carmen can go on any number of adventures or stay comfortably in Rivendell, where Carmen can remain single or meet someone she connects with... She's Schrodinger's cat at this point, and that means any and everything can happen to her in the future.

I started writing this because I loved the idea of Smaug in the classic fairy-story where the dragon imprisons the princess. From there it became a story about acceptance and moving on as I wondered what would happen to the princess in the aftermath of Smaug's death. I've accomplished that, and thus the tale ends.

Thank you for reading!


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